


Green, Black, Blue, and Red: House Targaryen in the 2nd Century AC

by TC9078



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Book: Fire and Blood, F/M, House Targaryen, M/M, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Self-Insert, Story: The Princess and the Queen, Story: The Rogue Prince, The Dance of the Dragons | Aegon II Targaryen v. Rhaenyra Targaryen Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25197343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TC9078/pseuds/TC9078
Summary: In which I am reborn as Lucerys Targaryen, son of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce. A bit self-indulgent.
Relationships: Aemma Arryn/Viserys I Targaryen, Alicent Hightower/Viserys I Targaryen, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Rhaenyra Targaryen & OC
Comments: 161
Kudos: 224
Collections: Foreknowledge, L





	1. Prologue 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Blacks, The Greens and The Reds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20702078) by [Loke_Lyon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loke_Lyon/pseuds/Loke_Lyon). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this back in April and posted it on AH, but I figured I'd post it here as well.

A loud clang echoed across the training yard as two warriors sparred. Back and forth they moved, deliberate in their steps, clashing steels. From the window, I watched the two in their bronze-plated armor. While it looked fairly accurate to the historical fencing manuals I remembered, I couldn’t truly judge until I was allowed to wield a sword. I think, even then, I'd have to get used to the fact that arming swords were called longswords here. Actual longswords were just called bastard swords. While I knew the term, it wasn’t one I often read in historical pieces.

After a few more strikes, the larger of the two fighters disarmed the smaller, and they quickly yielded. I did what was natural, loud clapping and a great big smile. With the bout finished, both removed their helmets, and both had rich brown hair, though the bigger of the two was possessed of many grey streaks. He was my great-grandfather, Lord Yorbert Royce, Lord of Runestone and Lord Protector of the Vale of Arryn since before I was born. The younger was Ser Robar Royce, my granduncle. After a short while, Yorbert looked up at me with a plastered smile.

"Luke, go back to your mother!" he called. His tone of voice welcomed no protest. Immediately, I hopped off the sill and began trotting down the halls of the place, making my way back to my mother. 'Luke,' as he always called me, seemed to be what he pretended my name was. He never looked at me directly, as if he were ashamed. _If you didn't want me that much_ , I thought, _then why did you bother arranging the marriage of my parents?_

I stopped to look at my reflection for a moment in the window. My brown hair that I shared with them . . . the streak of silver-white that ran through it down the ridge of the back of my skull to my right ear that I knew was from my father, as were my pale lilac eyes that observed the pane, all of it stared back at me, like a stranger. Despite my grandfather's desire to force everyone else to forget my true name, he could never erase it from me.

My real name was Lucerys Targaryen, son of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce. I believed that I was a Prince as well, though I feared what my grandfather’s response would be if I asked. Power and status was a thing I'd yet to grasp. I never met my father, and letters from him never came, as far as I knew, so the concept of asking was useless. For my grandfather, I was a reminder of the failure of his ambitions. He’d risen quite high and had expected to continue rising higher still.

His position as a member of Lord Rodrik Arryn’s inner circle had allowed him to seize power as Regent when both Rodrik and his sons had died during a raid against the Stone Crows, leaving the infant Jeyne Arryn as the Lady of the Eyrie. Her father Elbert was, by a factor of technicality, Lord of the Eyrie for a few weeks as he wasted away from an infection. In his passing, a girl who hadn’t even left her mother’s breast had inherited the position of Warden of the East.

With his new status as Lord Protector of the Vale, grandfather had leveraged that power to have his daughter married to the sixteen year old Prince Daemon Targaryen, a match neither were interested in. The Prince had done his duty on his wedding night, however, and I was born before the year’s end. What Yorbert had planned on doing from there, I hadn’t been able to piece together. Maybe he’d meant for me to act as a gateway to further Royce power in King’s Landing. To see himself sworn directly to the Crown somehow was a dream he still held dearly.

But that had all failed due to my mother. Knowing of Daemon’s feud with Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, she’d chosen to give me a traditional Velaryon name to spite the husband that hadn’t visited once during her pregnancy. He’d sent a letter that had essentially declared he gave not single affection for me, from what grandfather had said.

Being disowned at birth wasn’t how I expected I'd start out in Westeros . . . well, if I showed up here at all. I knew The Rogue Prince was a complete prick, but he’d always wanted a male heir, and I remember him having been happiest when Aegon the Younger was born. To disown his legitimate son because he disliked what his mother had named him was beyond petty, even for him. But, with that, plans for Royce influence extending into King’s Landing had vanished, and I was left at Runestone as the result of that failure. Only a few nights later did I learn what he was planning next, listening through the door.

“It seems your boy might prove more useful than I thought,” I heard him say to my mother, “His other grandfather is dead, and King Jaehaerys is calling a Great Council of all the Lords of the Realm to convene at Harrenhal in order to choose the next heir to the throne.”

“Father, you cannot mean to push his claim?!” Rhea replied, sounding shocked and surprised. Grandfather merely laughed at that, but it didn’t seem to be one born of amusement as it usually was.

“You’re not coming, but I’ll be bringing him with me to remind the rest of those sister-fuckers that we have him in our line, and to remember that he exists, or forget . . . at their own peril. I’ll be attending on behalf of House Arryn as Jeyne’s Regent, and Robar will come with me to represent House Royce. Mayhaps while I’m there, I can figure out how to fix your spousal mess,” he said, voice cold and disgusted. I turned, dashing away from the door as silently as possible, quickly returning to my room and barring the door. I fell asleep that night curled up in my blankets.

A few days later, the entourage set out. My age confined me to a wheelhouse, confusion remaining. Grandfather had been sure to dress me brightly in house colors, as if to rub it in that I was his alone. Suddenly, I was his favorite, years of hypocrisy in the making. And yet, instead of trekking along the Vale as I'd expected, we'd rode for Gulltown, loaded all things onto boats, and sailed forth. I thanked whatever god sent me here that the small body I occupied was impervious to sea sickness.

It barely took one day for the ship to arrive at Saltpans. We disembarked at the port, and from here, continued along the road. As everything was unloaded, I took a risk on my part that I wasn't certain would end in success. I cleared my throat, and found the courage to ask my grandfather why he'd made us port at a small nowhere-town like Saltpans, instead of Maidenpool. I was sure to use as 'cute' a voice as possible, pronouncing things wrong and screwing consonants into stupidity. Yorbert scoffed and looked down on me with a cruel glare, his slate grey eyes searing pure hatred.

"Lord Mooton supports the Velaryon claim. I'll not patronize him with my coin while he continues to disregard the rightful rules of inheritance," he responded, and promptly he lectured me on speaking out of turn, instructing that I remain quiet at the Great Council, lest I would be called upon to speak.

I first saw Harrenhal a few days later, seeing the half-melted towers over the horizon. It was hours later before I finally saw the rest of the castle in the distance, rising over God's Eye. My mouth was hung open as I leaned out the window of the wheelhouse. _Game of Thrones’_ Harrenhal had _nothing_ on this monstrosity.

As I was ogling the castle walls that held no sense of scale, I was shaken back into reality by a deafening roar from overhead. Once my ears had stopped ringing, I peaked my head outside the window . . . only to see a gigantic grey-blue . . . I wanted to say a dragon, perhaps a wyvern. No, definitely a dragon. Or was it a wyvern? It was a wyvern, it had to be a wyvern. Or was it a dragon? The books called it a dragon, so my guess was . . . one of the two. It flew overhead, leaving the entire party in shadow as it passed across the God's Eye, spiraling and flying around in half-circle tricks as it went by.

I slowly brought my head back inside and looked at the maid who'd been assigned to look after me.

"I want one," I said.

She hesitated before a smile ultimately spread across her face and she patted my head.

"Not to worry, little one," she said, "I am sure you'll find one of your own one day, if your blood rings true."

I nodded as the wheelhouse pulled into an empty area of land, and began pulling items out from its confines. I quickly hopped out from the transport and looked at our vast surroundings.

This was no tent city. This was a tent megalopolis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment any criticism or praise, and leave kudos if you enjoyed! See you next chapter!


	2. Prologue 2

It wasn’t long after we’d arrived before I managed to ditch my guards and go running through the tent megalopolis, mostly passing by the other Vale houses as I went, but there were many houses I couldn’t name at all from their sigils. Closer to the castle itself, I could make out some more familiar sigils, mostly from the Crownlands. Darklyn, Hayford, Rykker, Rosby, and Stokeworth were the ones I could immediately recognize. There were also the narrow sea houses— House Sunglass, as well as the Valyrian Houses Celtigar and Velaryon.

I wandered astray of these people, this mass gathering of purple-eyed, odd-haired strangers and I ran off for the castle walls. It wasn't long till my luck finally ran out, as granduncle Robar finally found me, and he picked me off my feet by the scruff of my doublet.

"Where are you going now, Luke?" the amused man asked, a hint of condescension on his breath.

"Finding new people," I said, mustering the most child-like tone I could, and I then thought, "I wonder if my other great-grandfather is here," and Robar held me in his strong hands as he began walking.

"His Grace isn't here, he's barely left his bed since Prince Baelon died, and I doubt that anyone in King's Landing would want to let the King travel and risk civil war should he die en route," Robar explained, dragging me along toward the castle gates, "and if you must, I'll at least watch you; father should at least shout less if I say I was watching you."

Reluctantly, I relaxed and he set me down as we reached the castle gates, two guards approaching us from our left side.

"Names?" one of them said, "we can't just be lettin' anyone in right now."

Robar nodded, and explained, "Ser Robar Royce, and this is my grand-nephew, Luke."

I found myself feeling uncomfortable, but I waved at them with a smile on my face. One of the guards smiled and waved back to me. Looking at the colors of our doublets, the two men nodded and allowed us entrance to the main castle. The courtyard itself could have made Times Square blush enviously, and towers that flanked it were quite reasonably sized compared to New York's modern skyscrapers. I'd not known builders of any era prior to my own who'd been capable of such great strong construction, but then again, I reminded myself, there was a first time for everything.

"Lead the way then, little one. I'll be following behind," he grumbled.

I nodded as I began to explore around us. The fort, in all its grandeur, was like a private city unto itself, with craftsmen of all kinds occupying small regions in their vendors, working away the hours till nightfall. While normally, the castle was only half-used, Lord Strong had been granted thousands of gold dragons to prepare the entirety of the stronghold. Within the high walls was where the Great Houses and their households stayed. I could see the golden rose of the Tyrells, the golden lion of the Lannisters, the silver trout of the Tullys, the blackened stag of the Baratheons, and the grey direwolf of the Starks.

The banner of the House Targaryen wasn't there, oddly lacking in presence, though when I gave it further thought, I supposed they'd probably be in one of Harrenhal's towers. Late in the afternoon, we returned to the tents, where my great-grandfather was pacing about, visibly exasperated

"We're not allowed to stay within the castle, as despite the fact that I represent House Arryn, you all do not. I could stay in there by myself, but that's not exactly a wise decision," he told me, "we should've had Arnold represent the Vale and claim us as his Household with official positions. That would have allowed us to better approach the Greater Houses. Instead, I, who represent House Arryn, am forced to 'camp out' in the muddy fields with every other Lord of Westeros . . . the others must be laughing at that fact right now."

 _I certainly am, old man._ I sunk myself into a cushion. Ser Arnold, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, had been my great-grandfather's squire, many, many years ago, and his was a diminutive purpose, serving out his days as Yorbert’s little Arryn. He had also been a secondary plan, in the case of Lady Jeyne suddenly growing sick and dying, or . . . in the advent that she'd lost her usefulness, perhaps.

"M'Lord, Prince Viserys is currently refusing to settle his own Household into Harrenhal unless House Velaryon is also permitted to settle, which isn't likely," Desmond, my great-grandfather's steward, said, "so, perhaps it makes it less likely, as His Grace's chosen candidate, no matter how unofficial, is also sleeping outside the castle in a tent with his family."

That seemed not to entirely satisfy Yorbert, but he at least ceased his ramblings. The rest of the evening was relatively quiet, and that night, sleep came quickly, but it was different. My dream was normal, or so it seemed, beginning, as I would, playing outside of Runestone throwing rocks into the oceanside.

But just then, it shifted.

The sky grew dark, black clouds covering every inch of the sun, and the only light came from pallid green lightning that shot from nowhere in the stratosphere. I tried to run, but a great wind blew in from the sea and pushed me to the ground as the water crashed against the cliffs above with a thundering march. The viridescent flashes pulsed brighter and brighter till a great roar cracked open the welkin and there came a dragon of bronze hell, descending from the burning heavens with murder on his breath, blowing rust tinted fire from its maw across my home. The keep melted like a candlestick and the screams of those trapped inside ripped through my ears as I grasped my head and cried.

I woke up screaming and sobbing.

Robar came to me within moments, boring towards me with Lamentation in his hand before he saw me shaking and sniffling, alone upon my bed. He groaned, haggard and hoarse from his lack of sleep, and then sheathed his sword lazily. With a sigh, he sat down next to me and put a hand on my shoulder.

"I used to suffer from nightmares as well, when I was a boy. Worry not, for they aren't real. No matter how it seems, they cannot hurt you," he said flatly, though whether this was because he was tired or if he disliked my company, I couldn't say.

I shook my head, wanting to argue with him about the dreams of House Targaryen, but I realized that I had nothing to speak of. There was nothing I could say that would make him believe me— he'd believe a man's claim about Greensight, but not my own about 'Valyrian prophetic bullshit,' as I'd heard him occasionally say.

I sat there curled into the fetal position for what felt like hours. This position was established firmly when Yorbert had me break my fast with him, and dressed me in bright Royce colors again, acting as though he was my loving grandfather. I truly wished that I could've believed him, but he'd already failed me in that role. When the meal was done, I snuck away again, out beyond most watchful eyes to explore except for Robar, of course, the brute hounding me close behind. Likely, he would drag me back when it was time for my lessons. There were plenty of mummers and merchants, all looking for coin or locking bonds with others. I passed by many Lords of the rows, lost in deep conversation, even passing by after them two more signing an agreement of betrothal. The evening was uninteresting, and sleep came to me once more like an old friend, dreaming without dragons.

Each day, I searched a different place. Lords of the Vale, Westerlands, Reach, and especially the Riverlands congregated together. In fact, for the river kingdom, it seemed that every one of their figures were present, as I saw more Riverlords than any other in the field. Though it wasn't to remain so for long, every passing night drew more and more banners, and new delegations arrived alongside more merchants and their brokers bearing strong goods. It was at a fence selling Myrish Lace where I met her.

"Ser Harrold, it's the wrong color!” a young voice called. Pausing for a moment of curiosity, I soon saw a beautiful girl. She looked my age, or thereabout, and she had the most bewitching locks of curled silver-gold, unblemished skin, and deep violet eyes. I took a breath of fresh air and approached carefully, the girl still arguing against the white-clad knight besides her.

Drawing as little attention as I could, I walked past the girl and saw the different wares the Myrish marchant had in stock. With a smile, I pulled out my coin-purse, and in passable High Valyrian, requested a far-eye. I'd never before been so thankful for the Maester's indulgence of my thirst for knowledge, but I certainly was now. The merchant chuckled and reached into his stall, pulling from it the telescope.

After a moment, I held up my hand, and he grabbed a second one before I laid most of my gold dragons on the wood banner-top. The man laughed and handed over to me both far-eyes. I held both of them to my eyes, like a disconnected pair of binoculars, and innocently, I laughed as I spun around.

"You want one?" I asked, barely noticing I was still speaking High Valyrian, "you can have it, I only need one."

Hesitantly, she stepped forward and put her hand over mine, carefully lifting the far-eye from my outstretched hand.

"Thank you," she quickly said, looking back at the knight behind her. The man nodded.

"You at least remembered to thank him, Princess," he said in the common tongue. At the mention of her title, I made a show of being surprised, before I bowed my head respectfully as best I could remember, assuring myself proper of roughly equal standing.

"Great, now he's bowing. Stop saying who I am, Ser Harrold! At least I've got a real gift from someone," she muttered. With the second drop of his name, it grew clear who the man truly was. Ser Harrold Westerling, future Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. I remembered him vaguely from the story, he was a good and honorable man, and, I believed, the uncle to Lord Rollam Westerling, whose daughter was betrothed to Jason Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock.

Dear god, keeping track of these families was gonna be harder than winning at Mirai Nikki with an iPhone.

"Do you not like it, Your Grace?" I posed the question innocently enough, "I can find you a gift more to your liking, if you'd like."

She shook her head and muttered, "no, no . . . thank you for the gift."

She looked at me then gazed back at Ser Harrold. Moments of consideration passed by till I realized she probably wanted my name. As I turned my head, I caught wind of Robar walking towards me, a slew of items slung over his shoulder.

"I'm Luk-Lucerys," I said, stuttering momentarily. I ignored Robar's disconcerting annoyance, and continued, "I'm your cousin, Your Grace."

She looked at me, confused, then anger emerged, though confusion remained dominant. Robar muttered a curse and spoke, "yea, Luke is Prince Daemon's son, though the man showed no interest in meeting the boy, let alone claiming him."

He ruffled my hair and shook me, Ser Harrold's eyebrows rose in amusement.

"I heard a small tale about that," he said, "but I hear many tales of our dear Prince Daemon. You're bound to, when you live in the same castle."

I nodded, my face reddening at the mention of my father. The Princess smiled and walked toward me, emulating my bow earlier.

"Nice meeting you," she said, "I'm Rhaenyra, but you knew that."

I smiled.

"Isn't Lucerys a Velaryon name?" she asked, the suddenness of the thought raising my own left brow. I sighed.

"Yes," Rober replied, "my niece thought to give him that name because Prince Daemon left before his birth and never returned. I've never understood it."

I felt to run water down my face, as though a stick of dynamite had been set off right in front of me, though at least I managed to grant another half-hearted nod at my uncle's unfeeling retelling. Then, Rhaenyra reached out and grasped my hand.

"Then come play!" she begged of me, "Laenor and Laena can't play anymore since Auntie Rhaenys took them away. Please?" Even as a child myself, those puppy-eyes were still my weakness. I relented.

"Okay, I'll play . . . as long as we can call each other by our nicknames," I responded. Rhaenyra's eyes lit up instantly.

"Of course! You can tell me anything you wish, if you'll play with me. You can even keep using that odd word!" she said, almost bizarrely excited. _How lonely do you get in the Red Keep?_ I wondered to myself.

She seized my hand and dragged me to an open clearing. _I've got to be more careful with my language, even though she doesn't care . . ._

We spent the day running around, playing together across the fields, speaking in impressions of others I told her were simply funny voices, and jumping over the many odd rocks that dotted the plains, and we were sure not to run through the tents either. Robar even left, thank whoever put me here. He only returned to the field later, when it was time to collect me, near sundown. At the end of the day, she hugged me tight.

"Promise me we’ll do this again," she said, looking at me, desperate. I nodded my head, lips mere inches from hers. A huge smile creased across her face and she kissed my cheek, holding me tight before she parted. I stood there staring as she went, feeling warm inside. Ser Harrold followed behind her, and he stared back at me and smiled, lightly bowing his head. Robar took me by the shoulder and turned me back towards the Royce tent. He was such a two-faced man, boorish and stern. We arrived back as the sun disappeared, and Yorbert held Desmond in deep conversation.

"What is Creighton doing in those meetings?" I heard him say, and Desmond stared off for a moment.

"I know not, my lord," he replied, "All I can say is that he's been meeting often with the Lord Waynwood, and Waynwood's often hosted the Lords Corbray and Ruthermont, in company with Ser Jaremy Moore, Ser Gerold Templeton, and both heads of House Shett. I fear the worst should Lord Redfort turn his back on us."

Yorbert snorted and sighed deeply. He banged his fist upon the table as we walked in, and he gave us both a smoldering eye as I snatched a piece of fruit and sat upon a cushion.

"We'll have with the Graftons to counteract the Shetts, as distasteful as it is to ally with those _usurpers_ ," Yorbert spat, "the Shetts have never truly forgiven me for Perra's death, so it is likely they will oppose any further overtures. Send a raven to Gunthor, tell him to ensure the other houses still stand by us. If we lose even the Belmores of the Coldwaters, we may lose everything. And have him send a raven to Ser Gerold; appeal to his ambition, that mayhaps we might look into raiding his house to that of a Lordly one if, say, he happens to tell us what is occurring in those meetings."

Desmond tipped his head and said nothing as he hurried off to find the Maester, who had the ravens to Runestone.

Over the next few weeks, I'd meet with Rhaenyra – or as I’d begun to refer to her, Rhae – every couple days. I spent the days playing games and wandering the different stands with her, though it could not be every day. We had lessons at different times. At least I managed to lose my accent speaking High Valyrian, or at least it merely sounded roughly similar to Rhaenyra's.

Though, eventually, my luck ran out, and on one day, I was free of my lessons while Rhae still had her own. For that day, I wandered around the different regions where merchants had set up. They had come from all over the Free Cities, and more were rumoured to be coming: Rhaenyra had told me that the sons of our grandaunt Saera were to be here for the Council.

Yet, despite my searching, there weren't many interesting things to buy. Seems I'd already scouted away all the interesting things in the days before. One Lysene merchant had some perfumes, Tyroshi were selling dyes, Myrmen selling glass of all kinds, and other oddities that held no interest for me. The Free Cities were clearly not halfwits, since all manner of goods flowed through the camp.

Another day, as we were walking, Robar suddenly grabbed me and pulled me behind one of the stalls. Though I protested, he covered my mouth and slowly peeked his head around the stall. Carefully, I followed; when I saw what Robar was staring at, my stomach sank into fear.

Standing before one of the Lysene booths was a tall young man, silver-haired down to his shoulders, and as he spoke to a merchant, the broker shook in fear of him. Robar marched me away before anyone saw, and I gulped hard. That was the first time I'd ever seen the man— my father, Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince . . . the walk back to the tent was swift and silent thereafter. I'd recalled seeing the shadow of a dragon overhead earlier in the day, but I'd thought of it as being Laena out on Vhagar – as Rhae informed me she often was – not Daemon's arrival.

I made mainly attempts at laying low after that, I wanted to disappear. I made sure to keep a watchful eye on the lookout, as a fortnight later, the Volantenes arrived. It was the largest part of any of the Free Cities, and most certainly the claimants. More merchants than I could count, along with . . . okay, was that a fucking elephant? Ah, that's right, one of Saera's sons had brought along the damned thing.

The day after the Volantene delegation arrived, Rhae and I were off exploring with Robar and Ser Harrold dutifully putting up with each other along the way. All to keep their charges safe, what strong-willed men. It hadn't taken me long to realize the two didn't get along. They masked it well. I raced through the stalls, not truly caring, Rhae right behind me, and we looked at the many things the new merchants had brought. Spices, exotic plants, odd weapons, many kinds of mummers, wines and foods from the far east, and many a short book of humor. Volantis were determined that they bore fruitful merchant contacts.

I couldn't blame them. The Triarchy was brand new at this time, but it was already hell for Volantene shipping. High customs duties for Volantene ships passing through put a damper on their enthusiasm. Transporting this large of a party at all must've cost a great fortune.

Rhae purchased several luxury clothes – or more accurately, gave them base measurements – for both herself and me. They were to be tailored to the Old Valyrian style, for now, and in the future. She made Ser Harrold carry every conceivable thing, I truly felt for him. I searched around for books next. Reading was still my greatest passion, although the small library in Runestone had little to offer.

I finally ran across another book stall, though I prayed it was something I would make better use of. Robar stood behind me as I walked towards it and caught the attention of the rather-bored-looking clerk.

"You . . . want book, yes?" he rasped out in a broken form of the Common Tongue, adding, "I sell book, many book."

I groaned. I certainly knew the pain of having to deal with plurals working differently between languages. The man bore platinum-white hair and deep blue eyes, however, so I assumed he was here with my Volantene cousin. With a gamble based on his appearance, I let him get a solid look at my lilac eyes, and then I spoke to him in High Valyrian.

"What books do you possess?" I asked. The man grew both terrified and relieved, a combination I didn't think to be possible.

He took a deep breath and replied, in the same tongue, "accented, but well-spoken," and with a nod, he said "I can name what I have here; nothing exceptionally rare, but I do have a collection of Valyrian tomes that were left in Volantene manses. Elsewhere as well."

I smiled happily, and gave an enthusiastic affirmation. The man retrieved from his cloak a parchment of listing and he read off his wares, pausing for explanation when I would ask.

An hour later, a group of servants left for the Royce's tent. Perhaps they were slaves. I didn't ask, I assumed he wasn't stupid enough to bring slaves to Westeros. They had been carrying a collection of books, the two most important being Maelyx Volantaeris' memoirs of his wars against the Rhoynar in the Second Spice War, and Jaenara Balaerys' writings on her three year journey flying over Sothoryos. That continent . . . scared me. At the very least, books on the subject couldn't hurt me. I hoped.

Rhae arrived during the man's listing. She herself had also purchased many books, most of them, she said, missing from the collections of Valyrian tales that House Targaryen had taken during the flight to Dragonstone. Some of them were religious texts, some were myths, others simple stories from an older time. My heart shouted at me once more, now for another reason besides loneliness.

Apparently, Lady Aemma read to her daughter every night, and Rhae had memorized what books were missing. Once everything was finally carried back to the tents, I spent the rest of the day with Rhae playing in the field again.

Over the coming days, we met our Essosi cousin and harassed them with questions. I felt bad, though to my surprise, they answered them in stride and were sure to take our questions as best they could. The Volantene one gave us each a purse of coins from one of the Free Cities, and then gave me yet another Valyrian book, this one part of a Valyrian history collection. Sadly, only a few volumes had survived the Doom.

Seeing all the books, Robar groaned beneath his breath. He certainly wasn't enjoying himself and I couldn't entirely blame him. I'd emptied most of our funds on books, and even gotten more out of Rhae when Robar refused. My head only rose when I heard him growl slowly a few words.

"More damned books . . . that's all he cares about. Most of our money here had gone toward stupid words on wasteful pages. I should burn them all just to see to it the brat doesn't buy more."

It was but a moment before his face paled when he saw my face. Rhae's eyes went wide as saucers, and she stepped back from him, looking between us repeatedly. She then looked up at Ser Harrold, at which point, her face hardened. Her eyes returned to me with determination. _Oh dear, I don't like that look, what's she planning!?_

Before I could ask a single thing, our group separated. Reluctantly, I returned back to the Royce tent and I stacked the newest books in the trunk I'd set aside for them. Robar gave a deep sigh at me and hung his head, stewing in his anger. I gave him a nod as I swiped a pear and sank myself into a cushion, nervous.

"Where's Lord Yorbert?" I asked, my head falling back into the cushion. Robar sat down at the table in the center of the tent, though it was really more of a pavilion. He rested his head in his hands.

"Meeting with the other lords, Luke," he said, glaring at me, "do not play with Her Grace anymore. She may be sweet, but she routinely comes back muddy. Ser Harrold is . . ."

I crossed my arms, angered by him.

"Ser Harrold is a good knight, he protects the Lady Rhae!" I objected, "and he seems to genuinely like her."

Robar clenched his fist and rested his fingers at the bridge of his nose, "no. Ser Harrold is ruled by her. He obeys her as though he were her maid. It's not right, Luke. She should obey him, not the other way around."

My eyes flared and my mind screeched just like a jet engine. I jumped up and walked toward him, and with pure rage, I stared him dead in the eyes.

"The Andal has no right to command the Dragon," I spat, "nor does the Blood of the First Men."

 _Wait a minute . . . I think that might've been racist_ , I thought for a moment.

Before I could think of an answer, a sudden sharp rocked across my face as I fell off my balance and tumbled to the ground. My ears rang like hell, and I tasted a light sense of iron across my tongue. The right side of my mouth felt torn, and I felt that my teeth somewhat ripped the skin against. I sat up and stared defiantly back at him, hatred coursing through me as I held my hand to my face.

"Mind your tongue, boy," he barked down, "you may be Rhea's son, but it is only by technicality that she is father’s heiress. Nonetheless, you are expected to inherit that lineage after her. Your place is to become Lord Royce. 'The Dragon' will have no place amongst us. Don't be so foolish," and he took a sarcastic view of me, "mayhaps you can marry Lorra, to tie that branch of the family back in.”

"I'm no Stone!" I screamed, "I already have a name! My name is Lucerys Targaryen, and you can't take it away from me!"

I never did hear Robar's response. The tent flaps opened and both of us turned towards them. A small gasp ran out as my eyes saw those familiar violet eyes. Rhae, holding onto another person's arm, stood there at the entrance.

Silver-white hair reached down to his shoulders. Pale lilac eyes adorned his face, and his lips were twisted into definitive loathing. I shook. Prince Daemon. Rhae had told him about me. I would've spoken had I not realized his eyes were trained on Robar instead of me.

"Royce," he said tersely, cold gaze steady, "how intriguing that it took nearly a moon to discover the boy's presence. And only through my lovely niece running to me about your threats of burning books."

His face relaxed for a moment as he ruffled Rhaenyra's hair.

_Not sure if that's creepy or sweet . . . gonna go with creepy._

Robar's face had blanched more severely than I'd ever seen. He was eyeing where his sword rested against the table, weighing his odds of reaching it before the Dark Sister could disembowel him.

"When were you to inform me of his being here?" the callous prince leered.

Robar sweat profusely from his forehead and he struggled to answer.

"We- we were going to tell you, of cour-" he began.

"-Tell me, when!?" the Prince bellowed, "when the Council begins to debate, and you raise his claim to gain concessions for your support? Don't think I don't know of Yorbert's pathetic game. You brought him here . . . to threaten us."

"Y-Your Grace, please-" he began, but he clearly had never met an angered Targaryen before.In a moment, Rhae was shoved behind with a yelp and Dark Sister was bared openly, its rigid point just barely touching the dirt.

"'Please' what, Ser?" he snarled, "allow you to use my own blood as leverage against his rightful family? To advance nothing more than your own greed?"

A tense moment of silence grew, Robar's face hardening into a serious scowl. Rhaenyra tugged on Daemon's sleeve, and he glared down at her. With a cursory smirk, he looked back at the man.

"I would cut you down right where you stand, but I don't wish to taint the Dark Sister with craven blood," and he then tipped his head toward me. Rhae came to me and offered her lovely embrace once more.

"Lucerys, is your face alright?" she asked quietly, and I nodded, feeling my anger drain. She smiled brightly at me. I was beginning to relax till more swords were drawn. Staring at the tent flap, there stood Yorbert now, Lamentation in his hand.

"Prince Daemon," he said calmly, "we were not expecting you."

Daemon offered a mere glance back to them. "Nor was I expecting to see my blood for the first time this way. After you refused to send him to King's Landing to present to my grandfather-" he said, his voice slowly growing louder with each word.

My heart skipped a beat, and I couldn't help but interrupt, "what?"

I looked at the old man with a sense of utter betrayal. Daemon looked at me with a thing resembling pity. Was he even capable of that?

"You didn't even tell him the truth. That is all I need to see from you," the Prince growled, and he took a step to me, though Yorbert raised Lamentation in his way.

"Leave, Your 'Grace,'" Yorbert snarled, fury caged in his eyes, "you'll not take him. He's my great-grandson. He will inherit Runestone, one day, after all. He's needed there. If you try, well . . . you don't have a dragon here, do you?"

His men behind him looked at one another, as Yorbert glared at Daemon, daring him to try.

"And leave him to be struck again by that pig?" Rhaenyra screamed, pointing off towards an enraged Robar, "you're not grandfather, grandfather never let anyone touch me, he would never let anyone hurt Luke, either!"

Daemon raised an eyebrow, and the child glared at Robar, continuing to yell, "his blood is of the dragon, and hurting him is hurting all of us dragons."

She pronounced dragon wrong, but her points stood tall, at the very least. Robar himself swallowed hard, hatred on his breath and hell in his eyes. Daemon stood bemused, head cocked to the side, a smile almost present.

"Rhaenyra, come," Daemon said, and reluctantly, she nodded, though she hugged me once more and then parted, returning to Daemon's side. Crouching down, he hoisted her up into his right arm and then took a look at me once more. Was that . . . regret? I'd never expected to see that on his face. Even now, I was unsure how to feel at seeing him Rhae so fatherly. I suppose he thought my face was a lost one, lost from him, and lost from its rightful house. Maybe he thought I was simply a boy caught in the wrong place, someone who knew nothing yet, someone moldable. Or, perhaps, he was simply under the conception that I truly unfit for this place. Whatever it was, he couldn't know for sure, he couldn't truly know me.

"Very well," the Prince spoke, "but rest assured, my grandfather will hear of this before the night is over. Pray now that he forgives you. I will not."

As he walked past Yorbert, he spoke one final time, ". . . just because you have the steel of one does not mean that you are one. You are no dragon. Never forget that, old man."

And with that, the Targaryens marched into the night, fading away into darkness. Rhae waved goodbye to me and her face fell heavy with sadness. I waved back. The very moment they had left sight, Yorbert glared at Robar.

"Luke is not to leave the pavilion again. He will be kept here, under strict guard. I'll not give Daemon any opportunity to take him!" he growled. Robar bristled and with clenched hands, he accepted. The old man looked down at me.

I looked him straight on, "he did want me," I said, trembling from anger, "you lied . . . you _lied_!!"" I screamed, hot tears rolling down my cheeks. Yorbert ignored me and walked on. None spoke for the rest of the night, the events bearing down heavily upon us all, more so than anything the pressures of the Council had imposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment any criticism or praise, and leave kudos if you enjoyed! See you next chapter!


	3. Prologue 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: SEE END FOR SPOILER
> 
> Something to note before reading this chapter:
> 
> Luke is an unreliable narrator. This is established on purpose. Luke's opinions and beliefs are not automatically correct. This will become more apparent as I introduce other characters as POVs.

Another day, another book. It had been that way for near a fortnight. I was allowed outside only half the time, the other half seeing me trapped within that wretched tent, reading away the small hours. Jaenara Belaerys's text was currently open across my lap, eyes flicking across the page engrossed, the words soaking themselves into my memory like a towel in water. As I reached the end of one section, I groaned as I closed the book and returned it to the trunk.

Most of the books in that trunk I'd finished within one or two days— practice with long books had definitely paid off; however, one I had read the most was the volume on Valyrian History. It covered the early period of Families, of which I knew a few: House Volantaeris, House Belaerys, and my own House Targaryen. It turned out that the phrase 'families' was a misnomer. Even 'dynasty' was inaccurate. I desperately hoped there were more books on the Forty Families, I sought to learn as much as I could. Dragonstone might have some . . . it _was_ an oddly beautiful hybrid of Rome, Egypt, and other fantastical elements no other culture seemed to possess.

On my fifteenth day being confined to the tent, I began to plan an escape with what little opportunity I had. My first idea had been to slip under the fabric walls of the camp, but they proved far too heavy to lift and thick to pass under quickly. The Royces certainly didn't skimp their dense materials when it came to crafting their defenses. Trying to convince the guards wouldn't go anywhere, assuredly, these men were paid richly by Yorbert to ensure my shelter in place. Although . . . perhaps a bribe to the servants might open pathways for me. I had yet to arrive at a concrete solution.

In the end, it came down to days of observing how the operation of the guardsmen, how rotations worked, the windows and gaps established by their work. I made each notation painfully accurate, and I spent two weeks being as thorough as possible; the second day of the Council's proper deliberations had become the one I'd chosen.

The day prior, I'd come across an interesting piece of information: in this world, Princess Viserra hadn't broken her neck falling from a horse. In fact, she was the current Lady of White Harbor, a fate far different than I'd known. Her family had dropped their claims and supported Laenor Velaryon. According to Yorbert, they'd gotten a tremendous loan in exchange for that support. _Open bribery to choose the next King of Westeros . . . well, it's not like Yorbert hadn't planned the same thing for me._

I still didn't know what the fallout of Daemon's rage had been. Another question to ask later. On that day, I slipped between three of the tents when the guard on duty had passed out drunk - a routine I had noticed was his habit - and fifteen minutes before the next one had been due to arrive, I'd gone. It was fairly simple to vanish with a bag when prying eyes were locked shut, hands locked around a cup of ale, all of them none the wiser.

I knew I'd be left in a bad way once I was found, but the short taste of freedom made my heart soar. The markets held profound numbers within the crowd, and through them I could hide myself relatively well, though I was mostly surrounded by baubles now, none possessing a true interest to me. Even still, I mostly snuck around behind the stalls when the opportunity provided, concealing myself as best I could with a makeshift disguise.

Regaining my focus, I strode through the markets, taking care to avoid drawing any attention to myself till I reached the open field I'd often played in with Rhae. I smiled as I thought of the bribes I paid the servants on this day, knowing I was doomed, at least physically, and either way, I would most certainly be fine. Robar wouldn't burn the books, and that much was a gift in itself.

The sun was just past it's zenith when I heard familiar footsteps rushing toward me, and it was then that I was practically assaulted by a familiar child, a girl my own age who'd swarmed over me with her arms wrapping tightly around my back, and her silver-golden curls shining in the light as Rhae collided with me. I laughed happily, caught by surprise, and embraced her in turn.

"Lucerys! You got out!" she said, her voice bright and chirpy. I nodded and sat up, still holding her tight. She pulled back and smiled, eyes practically glittering as she sat in front of me. Behind her, Ser Harrold stood his watch, protecting the Princess his primary goal. The next few minutes were fraught with emotions and stories and it was quite the different rendezvous from what I'd expected.

"Ser Harrold," I called, Rhae's head whipping 'round to the Kingsguard knight. The man looked at me curiously, and I spoke, "as you live in the Red Keep . . . I would ask that you tell me some tales of my father, so long as I can hear them, of course."

Harrold bellowed heartily at that, and walked three paces closer.

“Prince Daemon is . . ." he began, attempting to find the words, "he's angry. He always has been. He tried to stab Princess Rhaenys with a fork when he was three, after she took Princess Alyssa's Dragon, Meleys."

He winced and took a breath, "he hates those who wrong him. He truly, truly does. And yet, beneath that . . . there is a caring side under all that anger. Though, it takes a certain skill to bring it out," and he sighed, "but alas, I do not."

"He's turned that anger into fighting prowess," Ser Harrold said, and he raised his eyebrows briefly in thought, "he was knighted by His Grace for such skill, around five-and-ten if I recall correctly. He was given Dark Sister as a token of his mastery, a growing warrior and a strong, proud son of the House. He's vicious in melee and a wrathful jouster. Prince Baelon always said his sons were two halves of a whole: Prince Viserys to charm allies, Prince Daemon to slaughter enemy throats."

I put my hands together and looked down.

"I wish I could have met grandfather," I said, "he sounds like a good man."

The Kingsguard nodded at me, as did Rhae.

"Aye . . . he was good, kind, just, and strong. His Grace put a lot of hopes upon our Spring Prince," he said, with some amount of admiration in his voice, "to lose him like that . . . His Grace is troubled that he may not have enough time to teach his heir to be a proper King before he passes."

I understood and nodded. Whenever a Targaryen King managed to properly train an heir as Hand of the King, to properly prepare them, they died tragically in short order before their sire, leaving the throne to one unprepared to rule. Princes Baelon and Baelor had both met that end.

On the other hand, Baelor's death, while a tragedy, still left Maekar in charge, and Maekar was a good King, if nothing else. Baelon's death left a vacuum that Jaehaerys had been too indecisive to fill, so the Lords of Westeros fell to the view that they should choose the King, as opposed to the King himself.

And Ser Harrold spoke again of my heritage, his voice now twinged by sorrow, "when your grandparents died . . . those were the only times I'd ever seen Prince Daemon cry. He takes such great care in hiding himself away so usually that not even those close to him can see what he feels, but . . . I suppose at that point, even he couldn't keep that face made of stone," he said, sighing deeply, "if we could convince His Grace, I believe you'd do him well. Caring for his lost child might cool his dragon's blood."

At that, I felt a genuine smile cross my face.

"Aye," I said, "if you could . . . I'd like that." We stood shortly after, as I slipped off my bag and gave it to Rhae, and she passed it to Ser Harrold.

"Take care of my books," I said, and I bowed to her.

She frowned, "you have to leave? Why can't you come with us?"

Sadly, I shook my head, "Uncle Viserys would just send me right back to the Royces. If I can, I'll see you. I'll write whenever I can, and that, to you, I do solemnly swear."

Rhae took my hands in her own and held me tight, looking into my eyes nodding, and then let them go. With a disheartened sigh, I started off back towards the tents, now with nothing on me but the shirt on my back and the cloth I'd used to cover my face. I wondered to myself if they even noticed I'd gone. Would they even realize it when I came back? I found it unlikely they'd care beyond the threat of violence, no real emotion was there to be had beside anger.

Robar found me first, not far from the tent. I'd gotten so close - so god damn close - only for that infernal meathead to catch me at the last moment. I thought he'd strike my face again when his eyes fell on me, but he simply grabbed me by the wrist and marched me back to the pavilion, tossing me inside. I stumbled to the ground, roughened up. Pushing myself back to my feet, I felt a gigantic weight power through my back and send me sprawling again, Robar's boot having felt like a cinder block in motion.

Pain shot up and down my body, as his hand rose and fell, for what felt like hours. Tears began flowing, and I sobbed for him to stop, forgetting my desires and wishes, just to let it end. I kept glancing at the tent flap, praying that Rhae would bring someone to save me again, but help never came, as Robar screamed words that became unintelligible.

Pain shot up and down my body as his hand rose and fell, hours passing by. Tears flowed from my cheeks to the ground, my sobs ignored, my pleas for him to stop unheeded, my wishes and desires left forgotten in a sea of suffering. Through foggy vision I kept one eye glanced at the tent flap, praying that Rhae would bring someone, anyone, to come find me, but that help never came. Robar screamed things at me, horrid things, unthinkable and at times unintelligible, his wrath unending and without mercy.

That night, sleep did not come easy. Not another night was peaceful the rest of the Council's adjourning, as every time I dared to come upon Robar, or even if it was nothing at all, he struck me. I grew desperate, turning to empty faith, praying and screaming for the gods to have mercy on me. I knew that the Seven had the least magic about them, but I would take anything now.

And again, no help came. The pain persisted, day after day.

The final day of the Great Council, Yorbert returned and gave me the results: Viserys was the new Prince of Dragonstone. Of course, my face was burning not two minutes later when I raised the fact of my father's heir presumptive stature just after Viserys. I stayed quiet till we left, every bump of the wheelhouse delivering the gift of pain to my sore body, an agent focus that kept me painfully aware and brutally invested. Then, we reached Saltpans.

Yorbert stayed the path and caught up with us the next day, having stayed longer for his representation of House Arryn. From Saltpans, we sailed back to Gulltown, and then once more returned to Runestone.

Upon our return home, mother had been the first to greet me. She knew immediately something had gone wrong. I flinched as soon as her arms touched me. I said it was nothing and though skeptical she seemed to understand I was not in a mood to speak of it. The first order of business following greetings was a swift bath to wash the dirt of the road from my skin. It was when the servants finished getting me out of those clothes that mother saw the extent of the bruises across me and she sank into tears. Robar had taken care to avoid my face after the first few days and that hid the beatings’ true nature from her first glance.

She ordered the servants to be gentle with me and stormed out of the room. I was scrubbed down softly and placed into clean clothing and I relaxed, feeling far greater comfort now than what I'd been forced to make due with before. Salves were rubbed into my abrasions and what cuts I had were bandaged. The pain had lessened, thankfully.

I was returned to my room, where I climbed onto my bed and sat quietly, chin resting on my knees. Nothing had changed at the Great Counsel as a result of my being there— Viserys was still elected the Prince of Dragonstone, and he would become King. I knew I’d had little chance of changing that, of course, but still.

If luck held out, Lady Aemma could bear an heir for Viserys, lending some stability, but . . . I knew that was unlikely. The poor girl had given birth for the first far too young, the only thing those successive miscarriages had done was weaken her further, deprive her of spirit, and waste away her strength. It was murky water when deciding if Daemon or Rhaenyra were the respective heir. The poor thing was lucky not to suffer the same fate as my grandmother already, dying at 14 with her second daughter cut from her flesh as her life faded away.

But in that darkness, I thought of one light. Rhae. My heart warmed just thinking of her. The fun we'd had in the markets and fields surrounding Harrenhal . . . was the most I'd had in memory. I hoped she was taking care of those books I'd given her, perhaps she'd even enjoyed a few. We didn't have all that much time, after all. If Aemma still perished, Viserys would be likely to marry Alicent Hightower as I'd known he would, and the stage would again be set for the Dance of the Dragons.

My existence itself was an adverse element in the world, a pin drop in a dead-stilled lake. That alone would affect the events that would come to be and I couldn't simply hide in Essos and wait for it all to pass me by. I had been born into the wrong position for that. No matter my wishes, I'd be dragged into this mess of successional conflict kicking and screaming much the way a coward was dragged to war. I was the only Targaryen of the current male line. Another thought occurred to me; could I stop Daemon's ambitions? Was I collateral or a blockade? I honestly couldn't answer that myself. It was something unknowable in a situation that I couldn't yet affect.

At the very least, I could make things in Westeros better in some way. My new memories hadn't been around for very long, I could still remember a great many things of the life I'd lived before, the things I had been taught in school, the various tomes of non-fiction to which I'd applied myself. And as I tried to recount the many words upon words of philosophy I'd learned, Rhea returned to my room, rushing toward me. I hadn't expected her yet, and she hugged me gently, my body flinching reflexively as she'd grown near. She was careful, thankfully, and took care to avoid my bruises, my own arms rising to wrap themselves around her. I heard her, quietly but still present, after only a few moments sobbing into my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Luke," she whispered, her hands softly rubbing my back in small circles. I wasn't sure whether it was her words or the comforting embrace itself, but my resolve broke to pieces. I sobbed loudly, as loud as I could, and Rhea gently pulled me closer into her arms. It felt like hours before the mourning in my tears ceased, and then the tears themselves subsided, Rhea wiping them away lovingly. She kissed my forehead, cuddling me in her embrace for a long while, carrying away my infant sorrow.

"I'll make it right," she said quietly, "I'll make it right."

And she stood from me as she laid me to sleep, walking towards the doors. She paused in her steps, looking back at me, as if waiting for my drowsy eyes to tell her not to go. I let her leave. I sat quietly on the bed, staring at the ground, falling in and out of sleep till I finally hopped off. I left my room. Wandering quietly, I arrived in Runestone's godswood. The stone paths kept clear of the roots, though the trees themselves grew without care of the road. I then came before the contemplative face of the heart tree.

 _This is stupid,_ I thought. _The Old Gods are no more real than the other deities of this world._ It wasn't rational, but I couldn't care less. I had to try something. Some form of magic came from the weirwoods, that much I remembered. I wasn't quite sure of the details, as I'd never finished that book. I stared into the blood red eyes of the tree and knelt before it, almost hypnotized. I closed my eyes and bowed my head, clasping my hands together and speaking.

"I've never really visited a godswood before," I said, "I attended the Sept with my family, and yet they won't answer . . . Every time my uncle hit me, I prayed for them, begged them to help me, but nothing's happened. He's still here, and still, he hurts me. So . . . I'm not sure what you can do, if anything, but please . . . please help me. There's no one else I can turn to."

I drew back a hurt breath, ". . . please."

And I remained still on my knees, hoping for something, anything, a kind of acknowledgement, or a sound even. I opened my eyes past the tears that streamed from them. The eyes of weirwood peered back at me, and I felt something, some pull in the back of my head, though it vanished mere moments later.

Dejected, I returned to the castle, my supplications having no effect. Rhea – no, not Rhea . . . Mother – held my hand as we walked into the main hall, sitting silently for dinner. She never let me move an arm's length apart from her side, and Robar was seated forcibly at the opposite end of the table, as far from his grasp as possible. The day wound down; however, Yorbert stood up from the head of the table.

"My son has done very well representing House Royce at the Great Council!" he announced excitedly, gesturing to Robar, "therefore, as a reward, he will accompany me back to the Eyrie when I depart on the morrow. My granddaughter Rhea shall hold court here in my absence."

My heart skipped a beat, pounding my chest. I looked around, waiting for the punchline. None came. People congratulated Robar for his accomplishment and his presence. Getting the chance to visit Eyrie was no small feat. I could barely focus on my food for the rest of the meal, and as the meal dragged on, I desired to visit the godswood yet again. When it finally had ended, I slipped off from the others and found my way back. This time, I didn't look away. I smiled directly into its eyes and I said two words.

"Thank you."

I stood and fled to my room. Feeling that same tug in the back of my mind again. It was a peculiar sensation, but I knew that the gods had smiled on me, and that they'd found a reason to support me. When I had returned to my room, mother was there waiting for me. She hugged me as I came to her and kissed my brow once more, but I paid no attention to what she said, I was simply too happy to think straight.

"Mother," I said, smiling at her, "at the council, I met cousin Rhae, might I send letters?"

She raised an eyebrow at me, and I swiftly clarified, "uh-um, d-Princess Rhaenyra."

After a moment, she laughed, believing it merely a slip of the tongue, or a childish impropriety. Only this and nothing more, and though it was not an overtly joyful, she clearly respected my indulgences.

Hugging me close, she whispered, "of course."

And then sleep fell on me as she departed and I thought of the real gods, their kindness and aid. I knew someone would listen to me. The next afternoon, after I'd woken and spent the day composing my thoughts, Mother brought my first letter to the Maester just as soon as the terrible two were off up the road with their entourage.

Soon after, I began asking for paper from the Maester, as much as he could give me. I used enough of it for random drawings that Mother's suspicions weren't raised, but in secret, I began writing everything I could remember from the life I had lived previously, all technology, all policies, and other things I could think of. I knew I couldn't create anything complex, but I knew the basics of some things. Much of it, admittedly, came from just one book I remembered reading right before I woke in this land.

Much of what I wrote early on was about what little modern medicine I was familiar with, or at least, what I remembered being familiar with. The one that took up the most space: Iodine. I knew the history of it fairly well, and it was a fantastic antiseptic. It certainly wasn't the best one I could think of, but getting Eucalyptus Oil would be rather hard in this world. I knew what the rough equivalent of Africa was like, I could only imagine the Australia parallel.

I knew the basics of Penicillin, as well as Ether, but nothing concrete . . . and that thought immediately had me writing on concrete and cements, a train of thought ever so grateful, and that continued to the mode of kilns, like a train's furnace, and other hot things . . . and then I became hungry for pizza. Damn this primitive reality and it's lack of pizza! And then thinking on food got me started on crop rotation, which then precipitated recipes of foods I could remember, and then came whatever I remembered about preservation, which begat what spices I wanted to find, and this begat an expansion of food markets, which begat trade and . . . this was a lot of begetting. I was gonna need more paper.

It was soon after I began writing that I noticed it wasn't easy to write, at least not the same way it was back home. I first chalked this dilemma up to my body not being as used to writing as the old one was, but even as I wrote more and more, my hand still shook and it grew increasingly difficult to write. It was only after starting on the kiln that I came to a harsh realization.

I was left-handed.

After about half an hour of panicking, I returned to writing words, this time changing to my left. I turned the paper so as to avoid the smudging the ink with my arm. Preservation was tantamount, especially at this stage. It felt just like it had before, the ease and comfort that I had found in my previous existence. Thinking of writing as a form itself drew my mind to different methods of printing. I knew the basics of the printing press, though nothing exceptionally extreme. I was quite familiar with woodblock printing, which could certainly be done for smaller projects, such as single-page repetition, and it wasn't exactly unfeasible with the tools at hand in the world abroad. The movable type would have to wait till someone could take the ramblings I'd written on the subject and turn it into something that actually functioned properly.

Functioned . . . no. I would not touch arithmetic. No one could make me . . . although . . . I had no choice and grumbled to myself as I started with basic classical physics and algebra. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember much of anything from Calculus, and the only advanced formulae I could recount were Kepler's Laws Of Planetary Motion. Then, it dawned on me the measuring of things and every metric known to . . . not these men, but close enough. I tried as hard as I could to scrape at fading knowledge and to my surprise, I did manage to remember some things I thought I hadn't, and alongside the intuitive things came more than what I expected, even if it was boring. I really hoped that there'd be at least one or two Maester's in existence that could enlighten me on advanced maths, as I wasn't exactly the desired specimen to be chosen to reinvent trigonometry.

In between my sessions of isolated memory notation, I would play dumb and ramble childishly to my mother, who'd write my letters and send them to King's Landing, and then she'd read the equally childish replies I would receive; never did I tire of them, with Rhae telling of people in the court, the arrival of Ser Otto Hightower and his daughter Alicent.

Each day, I'd go to the godswood twice, often timed after breakfast and dinner's regular intervals. I would talk to the weirwood tree, and I would always feel the tug on my mind. It made me happier— for once, something was listening to me. Genuinely, something was listening, and I felt guided by another force that kept me from flailing in the darkness.

Eventually, Mother found out. She confronted me in front of the godswood, though to my surprise, she said nothing negative. Merely, she asked me not to do it so openly, and she stated her desire of me attending the Sept with her. The next day, my Septa was dismissed, and within the week, Mother had summoned two Green Clerics to teach me in additional lessons. I had to admit that, although it killed more time during the day, it was something new, it was someone to teach me the ancient stories.

Each day, I learned a new story from the priest – Father Jon, he called himself – as he taught me the legends of the various ‘Gods of the Forest’. His partner, Sister Beth, taught the Old Tongue, both speech and text. The Old Gods felt to me as druidic in nature, the priestly hierarchy furthering the notion. The more they spoke of the olden ones, the more it brought to mind Shintoism, the incarnation that existed before the Meiji Restoration.

In fact, when it came time to learn the closest word to 'god' in the Old Tongue, _rhanok_ , it was clear to be a far more complex term than the simplistic indications of 'god' or 'spirit,' it strengthened those thoughts even further. The numerous beings of the Forest were not nameless entities, in fact, many did have names, but they were exorbitantly long and hard to memorize. The _Rhanok_ of House Royce's weirwood was " _He Who Shapes Copper and Tin, He Who Sings to Rock and Slays Ice, He Who Thinks Before He Acts, He Who Sees Stars, He Who Pushes The Waves Away_."

And that was a rather short name altogether, at least by _Rhanok_ standards. I suddenly understood why most said they were nameless, trying to teach these names to anyone would be nigh impossible. All of the lessons progressed well, however. I couldn't read the Old Tongue very well, but I had a rough idea of the meanings, and the runes became less and less indecipherable. I couldn't be sure of my exactness, but at least now it wasn't a complete mystery.

Before I knew it, my fifth name day came and went, and the year became 102 AC. Yet life continued, writing away into the pages of a growing book, and learning more and more of the Old Tongue, and I even began lessons in swordplay.

One day, however, things changed. Robar, in his putrid anti-glory, returned to us with a retinue, and with him followed news— a summons to the Gates of the Moon. I learned that night, through one of the servants, that Yorbert had found a suitably unaware Septon to marry Robar to Lady Jeyne Arryn. My stomach sank at the news. Lady Jeyne . . . was only two years older than I. An injustice was not even a good enough word to describe the level of twisted immorality this reached. From what Rhae had said in her letters, he'd already tried once before and been ordered to cease by both King Jaehaerys, Lady Aemma, and the High Septon himself.

I couldn't quite accept that there wasn't anything I could do. Robar would hurt me if I tried, perhaps break something this time, if I alerted Aemma or the High Septon. I couldn't let it happen, I just couldn't. I would not. I put a plan together, one shaky but clever, and as the party left for the Gates of the Moon, I told Sister Beth everything I'd heard.

As we passed near Grey Glen, Sister Beth and Father Jon broke off from the group at large, heading toward the Redfort as the rest of continued on. I prayed silently that word would reach everyone in time, but I hadn't figured a way of confirming anyone heard me. My attempts to at small talk earned a stinging eye of contempt from Robar. Nothing ever annoyed him as much as I did. He must have cared much at all, as he never even inquired about the sudden disappearance of the two.

About a week later, we reached the Giant's Lance, and I gaped at the sight atop the mighty mountain: seven towers of marble all laid out circular upon the rock face of the largest natural formation in the lands, and many more of comparable size surrounding it. Only a narrow and winding road led up to the castle itself. It screamed superiority over the humble ants that roamed and farmed the muddy lands below it, which I could only assume to be its intended purpose.

The party all gathered into the castle, to be cleaned and rested. I knew not when the wedding would occur, but I knew it couldn't happen. If Lord Redfort did not arrive in time . . . no, no he must. It would be at least a few days till the preparations were finished, and Lord Redfort had to arrive by then, and I just couldn't think of what would happen if he did not.

Two days went by, agonizing, and no word came. Late on the second day, a large dinner was held, with the Gates’ Keeper Ser Arnold Arryn presiding. During the feast, Lady Jeyne arrived at the hall, Yorbert in close company and the personal guard escorting both, though her face only bore resignation.

The next morning, preparations for the wedding began. I kept looking out the window of my room, but there wasn't a single sign of any banner nor flag over the horizon. I knew Lord Redfort wouldn't be that long, he had to arrive soon . . . I knew he would, he must. I had to buy time, somehow.

I spent much of the morning planning, even as servants arrived to strip and bathe me, and place me into fine clothes, brightly showing House Royce's colors. All of us slowly filed into the Sept, as I silently prayed that my plan would work. It wouldn't buy much time, but it might cause chaos . . . chaos was the main concept. I needed to be as hostile and loud as possible. Failure was no option, it wasn't even a dim possibility I could accept. If all else proved fruitless, a postponement was a second best result, anything that could delay what I truly did not want to be . . . the inevitable.

I was made to sit at the front. I glanced at the altar, where a nervous Septon stood, face flushed with . . . something. Drink, perhaps? Yes, maybe that was the ingredient needed to commit as horrid an act as marrying a child to a brute like Robar. Whatever it was, it was certainly a nice fine layer of feces to this already disgusting series of events. The man himself stood there, the smug Royce dressed in his own fineries, with the wedding cloak of House Royce 'round his shoulders.

At some commotion, I turned around. Lady Jeyne, dressed in a white dress of beautiful make and a bright blue maiden's cloak draped over her, was escorted into the room by Yorbert himself, tears streaming down her face. She looked rapidly across the great hall as she neared, searching for any reprieve or fantastical rescue of an eleventh hour's contrivance. I knew that look well. Desperation.

I gulped audibly, as Jeyne sniffled all the way up the aisle. Once she was upon the altar, singing began, mismatched to her emotion and directed by the Septon, who called upon the Seven to bless the marriage before it could occur. Again he called and the wish of fertility and long-lasting vigor between the couple in matrimony was granted. I made one last prayer to the god of the Andals and my own. Soon, it came time for the exchange of cloaks. That was the moment to strike. I rushed to the aisle right then and there, and I ensured maximum carnage as I went.

In an instant, all the eyes in the chamber came to me, including the glare of the old man. If looks could kill . . . I didn't dawdle, there wasn't any time. I took a deep, quick breath and began to shout.

"You can't make Lady Jeyne marry! King Jaehaerys and the High Septon said that she must not be wed!" I bellowed, "you all betray His Grace! You all would watch her marry against the King's decree!"

Yorbert began a deathly stride, eyes roaring hatred. I backed away fear tugging the back of my mind, but it did not overcome me, and I puffed myself forward.

"I won't let you marry her to Robar! Never!" and at that, he walked ever-faster, and with his bare fist, he came crashing down upon me.

In an instant, pain exploded across my face as my ears began to ring. I lost my balance and fell to the ground. I shook my head and heard silence become tumult, voices screaming out, though it all felt muted by the pain in my face and tears streamed down my face. Pain suddenly shot through my body, first my back, and then my stomach. I saw stars and felt motion. I was hauled up by my clothes, suspended in air, and I screamed and sobbed as loud as I could, begging for it to stop, but my words went unnoticed.

My back smashed stone, vibration strung through me, and all went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: VIOLENCE AGAINST CHILDREN
> 
> The unreliable narrator portion refers explicitly to Luke's belief in the Old Gods, just so you are aware. Luke, the character, believes they are real and powerful. That doesn't automatically mean that they are, but it also doesn't mean he's 100% wrong. Use your own judgement on that one, readers.
> 
> Leave any praise or criticism in the comments.
> 
> Also, this is my last pre-written chapter, so you are all subjected to my whims now, mwahahahaha.


	4. Prologue X— Interlude: The Rogue Prince

After delivering his niece to her father, Prince Daemon Targaryen marched straight to the Harrenhal stables, where the dragons were kept. He felt bereft of mercy that particular evening. The keepers of the dragon he'd brought from the capital gave him no resistance as Caraxes was swiftly saddled and mounted. In the blackness of the night, the Blood Wyrm took to the skies. So high it flew over the God's Eye, the moon illuminating God's Tear straying from its great birther as Caraxes itself steadily crossed over it, the river guiding the man's path ably. It took all of Daemon's self-control to not spur the beast onward as fast as lightning; but it could not be tonight, no. Caraxes had to be ready to return to Harrenhal as soon as the Prince had finished his business.

The sun was slowly rising on the horizon as King's Landing emerged. He circled the Dragonpit three times, bidding the dragon keepers for their attention, and when he felt they'd seen him, he brought Caraxes down to land, the keepers quickly taking his saddle off and placing a chain-collar around the noble beast's neck. Minutes later, Daemon took a horse down Rhaenys' Hill, barely paying a glance to the gawking onlookers as he rode down the Street of the Sisters, through Dragon Square, and up the King's Way to the Red Keep.

Daemon dismounted his horse and stormed through the castle. His wrath was unforeseen and unceremonious to those he came upon, and as he made his way to the Royal Apartments, into his grandfather's solar, his fury came to be seen as his hair grew unkempt and wild, teeth gnarled into fierce hatred. Ser Ryam Redwyne had let him by after some minutes had gone. Behind the thick wooden desk, leaned over many pieces of parchment strewn about, sat King Jaehaerys. Daemon’s grandfather. The King paid him a mere momentary glance before returning his gaze to the table beneath his arms.

"Daemon," he stated, no trace of emotion within his voice. "For what reason have you returned to King's Landing? You should be at Harrenhal to rally the lords behind Viserys."

The Prince's eyes scrutinized his every wrinkle, dug through him like daggers and pins, anger focused and flowing.

"I was," he began, his voice gravelly and his arms crossed. "And returning I shall, if not for the day's tiresome breaths upon my shoulders, then for the benefit of my constituents. My visit today concerns another matter."

"Mm?" Jaehaerys mumbled, uncaring.

"Earlier in my day, I was confronted by Rhaenyra. She delivered upon me a rather important piece of information. That Yorbert, of House Royce, had arrived with my own son to threaten us! I came there to see the truth of the matter, and on the ground, I found my boy beaten in dust."

Jaehaerys looked at him from his papers and saw the Prince out of sorts with himself. He sighed to himself. "Beaten? Or merely knocked to the ground?"

The grandson's eyes grew redder and his hands tightened.

Jaehaerys privately smirked to himself. "Daemon, I'm well aware of your distaste for House Royce. Aly was as well. She allowed you to come home, after all," he said, hideously sympathetic. "I've already told you once before. If you want your flesh and blood at your side, you're free to return to Runestone at any time. All you need do is take your place as Lady Rhea's husband, of which, I'm sure, many would be glad . . . and some horrified, I suppose."

"Return to a wife who fought me on every little thing she could think of? Return to that sickly Uncle who sought to fuck her? Return, even, to the foolish grandfather who had dreams well above his station?" Daemon had spoken plainly and rhetorically, the point being his bitterness of the fold. Even as he said it, the consideration had entered his mind for a brief moment, and he struck it down instantly. "No."

The King shrugged. "Then your son will remain with his mother," he said. "The boy will preside over Runestone one day. And when he does, he should know the people he will rule over from the seat he will rule them from."

"Yes," Daemon replied, short-tempered and quick. "If Yorbert doesn't follow in your footsteps and name his son heir over my bronze bitch, I would surmise you to be correct."

The cold eyes of his King shot through him, cold and deadly. Jaehaerys's frosty gaze was something he couldn't describe to anyone, it was merely something to be experienced.

The King growled calmly at him, all warmth gone from his voice, "Lady Rhea has spent her entire life learning how to be heir. Rhaenys was a girl of eight-and-ten, much too unprepared to take on the Iron Throne. Had Aemon lived to take his seat there, he would have ensured her ready to rule. Your father was who we needed at the time. Your brother, at the very least, has a strong marriage with House Arryn. It will keep the realm far more stable than Rhaenys and the Sea Snake could ever hope to achieve.

"And as for Lord Royce, if he dared to do so, then he would swiftly be reminded of why I took the throne after Maegor's death. Stability was needed, and I've spent more years than you know binding this realm together from the wounds my uncle left throughout it. He'll not just keep a captive Prince in his court, do not be foolish, nor think me one. Besides that, it was in the contract that arranged your betrothal to Lady Rhea that she was heir, and your issue would succeed her. If he wishes to break that agreement, he will find that oathbreaking is quite comfortably punishable under my reign."

Daemon bared his teeth and glared at the King. "But grandfather—”

"No. Enough talk, boy, I am King here," the old man proclaimed. "Ser Ryam!" he then called, and the aged Kingsguard came upon them, entering the room aware of their tense exchange. The King grumbled, "Escort my grandson to his rooms. I expect him to stay for the sennight, at least."

Though Daemon looked to reply, Jaehaerys's eyes grew even worse, silencing him with their frigid efficiency like none other. Silently, Daemon complied as Ser Ryam escorted him to his rooms in the Tower of the Hand, as though a child being scolded by his parents. For any other who dared to command him so, Dark Sister would gutted them capably, but not his grandfather. King Jaehaerys was one of the few men the Prince would heed, for he was better than him with a blade, and almost certainly wiser. A challenge to his grandfather would only end with his death and it was best to avoid such pointlessness in life.

Seven days passed by, countless hours flowing away, and Jaehaerys refused to see Daemon during any one of them. In frustration, the Prince turned to the brothels of the Street of Silk for comfort in those darkened nights. When the sennight was up, he was ordered to return to Harrenhal, as he had been before, and under no circumstances would he touch any Royce. Biting his tongue was a task more difficult than taming the broadest of dragons, but Daemon did so, mounting Caraxes once more, and returning to the burnt husk his grandfather's grandfather had created so long ago with dragon's flames.

Begrudgingly, he threw himself into ensuring the election of his brother— drinking in taverns with lords, jovial displays of martial skill, loud and forceful speaking during the deliberations, and direct intimidations and cold bribery of positions at the Red Keep. Daemon knew the King would likely be furious with him. If Jaehaerys hadn't wanted Lucerys home, His Grace then could perform his duties as King unburdened and keep those promises 'needed' to put his chosen successor upon the throne.

Yet, through all of that, his mind couldn't be taken from the child who shared his face and eyes, the boy who'd seen in the pavilion that night, even more so after numerous servants brought a chest filled with books to the Targaryen's fold said to be of his son's worth. He'd ensured the three were paid well and given positions in his brother's household, and when his niece cried, he did his best to soothe the girl till the tears fell no more. Let it never be said I don't reward my allies, he thought, as their newest servants helped put Rhaenyra to bed.

His hard work had finally paid off one-and-ten days later, at which hour the formal announcement was made that Viserys had been chosen by the Great Council. Daemon had given his brother a slap on the nape and a hearty chuckle, before the lads all returned to King’s Landing, and his sibling was installed as Prince of Dragonstone.

Over the next several months, Daemon continued to ask his grandfather to pursue and retrieve Lucerys from the Vale's castle, and time and time again, Jaehaerys refused him, even when he'd brought Rhaenyra and set upon her damned eyes upon him and groused and compelled the man to do many a dumb thing, he’d still refused to allow it. Rhaenyra had seemed, as such, to cease her asking once the lady began to receive letters from Lucerys, but she still asked if the man would bring the boy to the Red Keep. He disliked telling her no, but there wasn't any other answer he could provide.

Thus, nearly seven months after the end of the Great Council, late in the afternoon, Prince Daemon Targaryen stood in his grandfather’s solar once again.

Yet, as had been the case in each of his prior visits, nothing of note had been accomplished. Just as Daemon had come to yell, however, the doors to the King’s private room crashed open, doors near-flying off the hinges, and Aemma Arryn came running through.

“Grandfather!” she yelled. Jaehaerys looked at the door swiftly, and his face twisted into one of confusion. Daemon, too, looked at his cousin as she ran in, clutching a piece of parchment tightly, tears staining her bright-red face.

“Aemma,” Jaehaerys said. “What is so urgent that you forced your way into my solar at this time? I'm within the midst of a meeting.”

Aemma shook her head.

“This is more important!” she said, streams down her cheeks. Sighing, Jaehaerys waved for the letter to be brought to him. Aemma came to him and placed the letter on the King's desk. He grasped the note and began to read, exasperation slowly painting his face, and as he read, his old features creased into horror, then became rage. The King grit his teeth and tossed the letter to Daemon.

_Aemma,_

__

I am aware that I usually write for Luke to exchange words with Rhaenyra, but not today. Grandfather has attempted to wed Uncle Robar to Lady Jeyne, and Luke tried to interfere within the ceremony. Grandfather beat Luke into unconsciousness, and even now, my son is locked within a small room, unable to be seen by a Maester. Please, tell Daemon of this. We may not care for each other, but I know in my heart that he cares for our son. He must come to the Gates of the Moon and aide us, if he indeed hears my words. I am not too proud to beg, and I plead for help. Please.

__

_Rhea Royce_

Daemon came to seethe with a boiling fury upon his finishing the letter. That insipid worm dared to harm his own flesh, his blood? That was a mistake of Robar's to believe, that the man could touch what he pleased and feel no consequence. And the old man Royce bought in, just as much. Daemon's hand clenched and crumpled the parchment within hand as he stared into the hearth nearby and observed it's crimson flames, not dissimilar to his own passion. A moment later, a voice snapped him from his trance.

“Daemon!” his grandfather called. Daemon looked up to see Jaehaerys applying his seal to two pieces of parchment on the desk in front of him. “I’m entrusting these to you. This one orders Lord Royce’s deposition as Lord Protector of the Vale, and the other officially orders Prince Lucerys Targaryen to be handed over as a Ward of the Crown.” Daemon’s heart stopped for a moment, before Jaehaerys nodded. “Saddle Caraxes, and go get your son.” Minutes later, Daemon had changed into riding leathers and stored his grandfather’s letters in a saddlebag.

Daemon rode for the Dragonpit. When he arrived, the Dragon Keepers were already carefully saddling and feeding Caraxes. They each nodded to Daemon as he walked up. The beast noticed it's master and watched him carefully as he stalked the ground towards him. He lowered his neck, allowing the man to scratch the back of the dragon’s neck. Caraxes gave a happy puff of air as the Dragon Keepers finished tightening his saddle.

After securing the saddlebag and Dark Sister, Daemon chained himself to the beast and unfurled his whip. With a snap through the air, the dragon raised his head vigilantly, and his wings flapped, running along the road towards the walls, rising steadily through the air with a leap into the air around the Dragonpit. When he'd risen far enough, Caraxes turned north and raced along the landscape. Speed was paramount, but so was his noble mount's precious vigor. The Prince's fear remained steady still.

Two sunrises came and went, and Daemon saw the sunlight's reflection off the marble of the Eyrie at the top of the Giant's Lance. As he approached, his eyes grew wides, fixed to the base of the mountain. An army of a thousand men stood outside of the castle nearby, resting on a path beside the foothills. With the snap of his whip, Caraxes turned and began to descend, the beast's rumbling piercing the quiet of the day. The men below scattered out and ran, panicked and unsure.

The Prince chuckled to himself, _Seems to be even the peasants of the Vale know what to do when The Dragon arrives_.

Coming to rest his great paws upon the ground, Caraxes finished it's descent, just before the Gates of the Moon. Within moments, a man came riding toward him.

"Your Grace!" he called, bowing his head. Daemon returned his own vocalization— here ye, and speak, and so he did, "Ser Harrold Waynwood, Your Grace! I've come to alert you: we here are under the command of the Lord Redfort. He's come to take Lady Jeyne Arryn into his custody."

The prince rolled his eyes, and he asked the boy, "And I'm to assume you wish my help in that endeavor?"

Ser Harrold nodded.

"We'd be most grateful, Your Grace," he replied. "Lord Royce has barricaded the entire mountain, and he's working his allies to raise an army. This must end swiftly."

Daemon huffed a sigh and understood, turning to face the gates themselves.

"Tell Lord Redfort that the King has ordered Yorbert Royce's removal as Lord Protector," the prince grumbled. "He will stand down and face Royal Judgement."

Ser Harrold rode back across the line as Caraxes began to move onward, leaping across the fortifications and landing within keep before the castle itself. A single man from atop the inner sanctum stepped forward and called down to him.

"Who comes to the Gates of the Moon?" he shouted down.

Daemon rolled his eyes at the man. Wasn't the pale red dragon obvious enough? Perhaps not for the foreman. No, the messenger had wanted him to state himself, waste his time, time enough for the men to prepare all their crossbows and all their steely knives. With his eyes, he spotted men hiding behind parapets, clicking their weapons into fashion, loading arrows and pulling straps. Violence would lead the way then. Good. The prince cracked his whip harshly.

“Dracarys!” he yelled. Caraxes raised his head and shot a plume of red fire, grazing the parapets. Most who’d been training crossbows threw down their weapons and fled. Only a few attempted to fire, the bolts bouncing hard off the armored scales of Caraxes, who let out a whine of annoyance.

“Apologies, old friend,” he said, ushering Caraxes farther forward. “You break the King’s Peace by attacking his personal envoy! Throw down your weapons and come out, and you will be granted mercy." If not, Daemon thought, Caraxes shall feast tonight. Immediately, a voice called that an envoy would be dispatched with haste.

Minutes later, a young man, scantly more than a boy, came riding forth from the Gates of the Moon, the portcullis closing shut behind him loudly. He rode up, stopping a short distance from Caraxes and looking up. _No banner of peace. That will be his mistake._

“Your Grace, I am Ser Adrian Coldwater! We are pleased to see you here on this fine day, might I inquire as to why you have come today?” he said, with all the pleasantries needed. Daemon smirked. He knew he had to win now or risk possibly harming Caraxes.

“Ser, I have been sent as King Jaehaerys’ envoy, as there have been, clearly accurate, reports of a grand force marching here, and His Grace has endeavored to see this resolved. Quickly,” Daemon said, lying through his teeth. Yet, the Coldwater boy lapped up every word of it. “Permit me entry to the Gates of the Moon, and this will be resolved.” Ser Adrian nodded.

“Your Grace, I will confer with Ser Arnold, the Keeper of the Gates, but if he and Lord Royce allow it, we will permit your entry,” he said. Daemon frowned and shook his head, clear enough for the Coldwater boy.

“You misunderstand, boy.” he said. “I am His Grace’s Envoy. I speak with his authority. I will be granted entry, or those gates will melt with dragonfire and the force behind me will discuss terms after taking the keep. Am I clear?” The Coldwater boy opened his mouth.

“Your Gr—” he began.

“Am. I. Clear?” Daemon snarled, readying the whip. The Coldwater boy gulped.

“Your Grace, I cannot—” he began again.

“Very well. Dracarys!” Daemon called, snapping his whip. In an instant, the red flames bathed the knight and his horse. The screams lasted but moments, before just the crackling of the flame remained. Further screams erupted from atop the walls, as Daemon waited.

Several minutes passed, before the gates opened again, and several men exited on horseback, a flag of truce waving behind, and hands raised to show no weapons.

“The castle is yours, Your Grace. There remains an ongoing struggle inside, but we control the entrance and the path to the Eyrie,” one of the men at the front said. Slowly, the men of Lord Redfort’s army began moving up. Daemon nodded to the men.

“Take them prisoner, and seize the castle!” he ordered. The men behind him cried out and charged. Daemon urged Caraxes into the air, flying over the wall and into the main courtyard, incinerating countless men-at-arms who attempted to stop him. The easiest way to tell friend from foe was if their spirits dampened or soared when a dragon landed near them.

It was over in minutes, Lord Redfort’s men occupying the castle. Soon after, a small collection of men in Arryn colors came forward, and knelt before Daemon.

“Ser Arnold Arryn, Your Grace. Keeper of the Gates of the Moon for my niece, Lady Jeyne Arryn. When I’d seen you’d arrived, I ordered my men to open the gates for you. Yorbert was going to get us all killed with his _plan_ ,” he finished, spitting the last part out. Daemon knew full well his motives weren’t nearly as magnanimous as he was stating, but there wasn’t much point in arguing.

“Very well, Ser Arnold. For continued loyalty to His Grace, you will be permitted to hold your position as Keeper of the Gates of the Moon,” Daemon said, before Ser Arnold could continue. Arnold looked taken aback, then angered, then returned his face to a neutral one after a look from Caraxes. Daemon scoffed. He was letting the Andal keep his life and his post, was that not enough for him?

Moments later, Daemon dismounted Caraxes and ordered Ser Arnold dismissed. The man, clearly annoyed, walked to the side. “Bring the traitors and ringleaders to the courtyard, we will have a trial,” Daemon ordered. “And send a Maester to attend to Lucerys,” he added. While he was desperate to see his son, his grandfather’s orders overrode any desire he had.

The impromptu trial was set up soon after, with Daemon atop a raised chair in the courtyard, Caraxes next to him.

“Bring forth the Lord Royce of Runestone!” Daemon called. The aged lord, still in his armor, was hauled to the front.

Daemon gave him a smirk. How the tables have turned, old man.

“I told you to hope that my grandfather forgave you, Yorbert,” Daemon snarled. “He didn’t. The wedding was just an excuse,” he continued. “You have disobeyed a royal command, abused your powers as Regent and Warden of the East, and attacked a member of the Royal Family. For this, you—”

“I demand a Trial by Combat!” he yelled. Daemon chuckled.

“You do, do you?” he said to himself. He momentarily considered simply naming Caraxes as his champion, but none of these lords would accept that, and he didn’t need a dagger in the back at a time like this. “Very well. Do you wish to name a champion, or will you fight yourself?”

“I will kill you myself!” Yorbert roared.

“Very well, give Lord Yorbert a sword, and take his irons off!” he called. In moments, Yorbert’s irons were off and a sword had been pressed into his hands, as he was pushed into the courtyard. With a smirk, Daemon drew Dark Sister. Yorbert rushed forward, but Daemon simply stood back and parried his blows, before driving Dark Sister into the Lord’s neck. _For such a famed swordsman, he was weak._

“Bastard sisterfucker! You mock the sacred institution of Trial by Combat!” a man screamed, rushing past the guards and at Daemon. Robar Royce charged forward, but didn’t see the shadow of the blood wyrm above him, and didn’t until Caraxes had swallowed his head whole, biting it off, and roasting it and the rest of his body finely. Several long and grueling minutes later, all of the traitors had been killed by Caraxes.

“In my authority as envoy of King Jaehaerys Targaryen, I, Prince Daemon Targaryen, name Lord Creighton Redfort as the new Lord Protector of the Eyrie and _Acting_ Warden of the East. Ensure Caraxes is fed and housed, this trial is over,” he said. Immediately, Daemon sheathed Dark Sister and made his way through the rooms of the castle, until he reached the Maester’s Tower. Just outside the door, Daemon stopped for a moment, as Rhea stood there.

“Daemon,” she said in a harsh tone. Daemon simply looked at his estranged wife, expressionless.

“Rhea,” he replied. “You know why I’m here.” Rhea nodded, her glare only barely lessening.

“You got my letter,” she said. “As much as it pains me to say it… thank you, for coming here.”

“You were right in the letter,” Daemon said, walking past her and to the door. “I do care for the boy, and he won’t be hurt anymore.” Slowly, he opened the door and entered the Maester’s chamber.

In the room, Lucerys sat on a small bed in the back, with a man and woman on one side, and Lady Jeyne Arryn on the other. His clothes were rather ragged, but besides several welts and bruises, he looked fine. After a few moments, the boy’s eyes widened and he looked up at Daemon. Despite himself, he hesitated for a moment, before continuing forward.

“Are you well, Lucerys?” he asked. The boy’s face froze for a second, before a smile came across his face.

“Ya, I’m alright. Maester Walric said I’ll heal in a few more days!” he said, his eyes never leaving Daemon. A moment later, the young woman who had been standing next to the bed turned to Daemon and curtsied.

“I’m Sister Beth, one of your son’s teachers,” she said. “Maester Walric said his bruises would heal within a few days, though his welts will need to stay bandaged, and be checked by a Maester for corruption.” Daemon nodded at her explanation.

“I just said that, Beth!” he called, crossing his arms. The messing up of the pronunciations reminded him that his son was only five. Beth smiled, at Lucerys and nodded.

“Were you part of Lucerys’ household at Runestone?” Daemon asked. Beth nodded.

“Aye. Myself and Father Jon were within his household, as handed down to us by the Godshome of the Stone Heart,” she said. Daemon didn’t even pretend to know what that meant, but accepted it.

“Very well, you’ll be permitted to gather your belongings from Runestone, and remain serving him,” Daemon said, producing his letter. “On orders from my grandfather, Lucerys is now a Ward of the Crown, and will be coming back to King’s Landing with me.” Lucerys’ head shot up at that.

“I… I’ll be leaving Runestone?” he asked. Daemon nodded.

“Yes, and you’ll live in the same castle as Rhaenyra, so you’ll never have to be without her again,” he said. Lucerys’ smile grew even wider, but then his face fell.

“But, what about mother?” he asked. Daemon sighed.

“You’ll be permitted to write to her, but she is Lady of Runestone now, and she’ll need to become accustomed to her new position. When you are of age to foster, we can talk about sending you to her again,” he replied. Daemon had no real intention on following through on that, but taking the boy to King’s Landing would be easier if he accepted it. After a few moments, Lucerys nodded.

“Good. We leave at sunrise,” Daemon said, before turning around and leaving the room. He’d taken four steps from the door before Rhea cornered him.

“As Lady of Runestone, Luke is my heir now,” she said. “He will need to return and meet the people. I know King Jaehaerys told you to take him. Raise him happy and strong, and you’ll never be forced to look upon my face again, he can do that himself.” Daemon nodded before she finally backed off.

The next morning, Caraxes was rested and ready to fly. Careful to avoid his welts, Daemon strapped Lucerys to him and wrapped him in the chains. He’d let the boy delay them from saying goodbye to his mother and to Jeyne Arryn, before he’d finally accepted being strapped to Daemon. Once both were securely chained, Caraxes rushed forward and flapped his wings, soaring into the air around the Giant’s Lance, before turning south and flying as fast as he could.

It was nearly midday before Lucerys finally spoke.

“What does the whip do?” he asked, looking at the coiled whip attached to Daemon’s belt. Smirking at the child, he answered.

“It’s used to direct the dragon. With the sound, they respond to what you’ve trained. I’ve needed to use it less as I’ve become closer with Caraxes. Grandfather rarely needs to use his when he flies, and Grandmother didn’t need hers at all, Silverwing knew what she wanted at any point.” Lucerys looked back at him, eyes full of wonder. “When you’re older, you’ll fly on one of your own. Caraxes belonged to my uncle Aemon before his death—”

“But you only claimed ‘im ‘cuz Cousin Rhaenys had taken Melis when grandmother died,” Lucerys finished. Daemon sighed. This child would be a terror within the royal court within a few years.

“Meleys, and yes. She was hatched by my mother, and Rhaenys just took her without asking,” Daemon spat. “I might’ve said yes had she just asked, but I might have also wanted her for myself. I took Caraxes after her father’s death because of that,” he said. It wasn’t entirely true, he’d had his eyes on Caraxes for a long time, but he might not have claimed the dragon without Rhaenys having taken Meleys first. It didn’t matter now, though. Caraxes had been Daemon’s partner for most of his life.

Soon enough, Daemon began to ask Lucerys what he did. Lucerys used that as a window to explain his hobbies, interests, and likes. He raised an eyebrow with interest when Lucerys mentioned quietly that he worshipped the Old Gods of the First Men instead of the Andal God.

“I’ll sing the songs in the Sept, but I will pray before the Gods in the Godswood,” he said.

“The Godswood in the Red Keep doesn’t have the face-trees,” Daemon said after a moment. “You may ask Grandfather for one if you wish. I won’t hinder that. Don’t cause a scandal with worshiping trees and I couldn’t care less.” Lucerys nodded. It didn’t seem he was expecting anything else. Topics shifted around consistently as the sun reached its apex, and then began to lower in the sky.

Lucerys fell asleep in Daemon’s arms as Caraxes continued flying, and the moon rose high in the sky. In the silent night, all he could see was the child in front of him and his dragon, the ground as black as the night sky above. When the sun rose again, Daemon had barely slept, but in the distance, he could see the sunlight reflecting off of the walls of King’s Landing.

To make as much noise as possible, Daemon ushered Caraxes to circle the entire city, roaring loudly and certainly waking up almost the entire populace that wasn’t already awake. After the second roar, Lucerys jumped awake and rubbed his eyes, yawning loudly.

“Are we here?” he asked after looking down for a few moments. Daemon simply nodded to the boy. A few circles around the Dragonpit, and the Dragon Keepers streamed out. When Caraxes landed, Daemon could hear the whispering upon seeing the child strapped to him.

Within minutes, Caraxes was being directed into the Dragonpit, and Daemon was riding through the city on horseback, Lucerys holding tightly onto him. The smallfolk stared as he rode up the road, until he arrived at the courtyard of the Red Keep. He handed over his reins to a groom before escorting Lucerys to one of the courtyards. There, what members of the royal family could be there stood.

The first one to move was Rhaenyra, who rushed forward and wrapped Lucerys in a hug. Lucerys yelped in pain, and Rhaenyra shifted her arms until the boy no longer hurt while she squeezed the life out of him. Lucerys returned her hug, and Viserys stepped forward next. After giving a smile to Daemon, Viserys motioned for Rhaenyra to let the boy go, and she did so.

“I’m happy to finally meet you, Lucerys,” he said, with a large smile, as he reached for the boy’s head. As soon as he saw Viserys’ hand, Lucerys yelped and held up his arms as if to shield himself, his eyes closed as he trembled, whimpering. Rage boiled in Daemon’s gut at this sight. _I didn’t make Robar’s death painful enough_ , he thought. _I should have had Caraxes take his limbs first, cauterizing them shut, then slowly taking each piece until he begged me for death. Even that would have been merciful, if he did this to my son._ Viserys as well, looked horrified at Lucerys’ reaction. Rhaenyra wrapped her arms around Lucerys again then.

“He won’t hurt you, Lucerys. Father is kind, he’s not like that cruel man,” she said. After a moment, Lucerys opened his eyes again. Daemon quietly put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Lucerys nodded. Changing tactics, Viserys instead knelt and hugged the boy gently. This, at least, didn’t frighten the child. _Robar made my son weak and frightened._

After he had been introduced to each member of the Royal Family, Lucerys turned back to Daemon.

“Will you please show me around the Red Keep,” he asked. “Father?” Daemon felt his heart skip a beat for a moment, before he sighed and shrugged.

“Very well. Come along then, I’ll show you where you’ll sleep, and let you find the rest,” he said. Lucerys whined for a moment, but followed behind Daemon as the rest of the family began to move toward the Great Hall to break their fasts. All except Rhaenyra, who followed along after Lucerys.


	5. Chapter 1

"...King Viserys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm! Long may he reign!” the High Septon called.

A few moments later, Aunt Aemma came forward and was crowned as Queen Consort. The assembled Lords and Ladies of the Realm knelt in reverence, each coming before Uncle Viserys to swear everlasting loyalty to himself and his heirs, and Viserys in turn giving his promises of protection and support. The Wardens were all confirmed in their positions, including Lady Jeyne Arryn, who gave me a huge smile as she walked to swear her oaths to Viserys. I smiled and gave a small wave back, making sure to not draw attention to myself.

From there, the entire procession rode to the Hightower, where Lord Hightower was hosting Uncle Viserys’ coronation feast. Every lord came along, with the exception of Lord Rickon Stark, who was riding for the harbor to return to the North as fast as his ship could sail. It was the middle of autumn, and he’d taken all the time he could to swear his oaths, before he had to go home and oversee the harvest. He hadn’t paid me much… or any… mind really, but my bias towards his House aside, he did seem to at least nod when I recited a prayer in the Old Tongue.

The coronation feast started with myself and several other boys my age singing songs of blessing and various chants in Old High Andalic, which felt awkward on my tongue, even more so than Latin did in my old world. Hours of feasting followed, with toasts and congratulations all round. I smiled and gave my own congratulations as I sat next to my father at the high table.

After dinner, I slipped away from the cleanup and down to the Hightower’s Godswood. It, unfortunately, didn’t have a weirwood tree, despite my hopes. Sighing, I knelt before the great oak tree that served as this Godswoods’ heart tree. More recently, I’d begun making my prayers in the Old Tongue as much as I could, swapping what I couldn’t for High Valyrian, in case anyone was eavesdropping. As I was finishing my complaint about having to sing in High Andalic, I heard footsteps behind me.

I spun, only to see a heavily cloaked man, near twice as tall as me, walking up to the tree. I stepped aside and allowed him to walk up to the tree. He knelt before the tree and muttered quiet prayers, too low for my ears. As he prayed, I got a better look at him, the salt and pepper beard and the blue-grey eyes letting me recognize him under the cloak he wore.

“Lord Blackwood?” I asked. I didn’t get a reply for a few moments until the man stood and nodded down at me.

“Prince Lucerys,” he replied. “A royal prince praying in the Old Tongue to the gods of the forest is an unexpected sight, but welcome one. I prayed for King Viserys to be good and just, to continue the Old King’s peace for as many years.”

Fat chance of that, I thought. “I pray that he does as well. I pray that Aunt Aemma gives him strong sons to follow him… and so I can have more companions in cousins.” The lord seemed to let out a chuckle at that. I knew he had children of his own, and he’d understand the sentiment. He left the Godswood with some words of respect a couple of minutes later.

After that, I carefully made my way back to the rooms I was assigned at the High Tower. Just a small closed-off room connected to a solar with the rest of the Royal Family. Rhae passed by and gave me a hug before I went to sleep. I had a big plan before we sailed back to King’s Landing.

The next morning, I was awakened just after dawn by Sister Beth. As I quietly dressed, I was confronted by an odd mixture of anxiety and anticipation. I knew if they listened to me, it could mean me opening the door to the foremost center of knowledge and learning in Westeros. Of course, they were the only real center of knowledge, which I hoped to eventually change, but that wasn’t exactly something I could do yet.

Walking through the city, it was surprisingly advanced; oil lamps lined the streets, providing good light even in the dim early morning. The stones were even, and it didn’t smell quite as bad as King’s Landing; even the capital didn’t smell all that bad.

I knew it only got as bad as it was in the books after the Dance and the refugees flooding the city.

Finding my destination was not particularly difficult, as the Citadel had the tallest building in Oldtown apart from the Hightower itself. On either side of the gateway, bronze sphinx statues rested, the patina having turned them green centuries ago. Sister Beth marvelled at the beauty, while behind me, the quiet and solemn figure of Ser Harrold Westerling said nothing.

Just inside, there was a sound of coins changing hands within booths as a small crowd has already gathered.

“The illiterate pay to have letters read and written for them,” Ser Harrold dutifully said before I could ask. “It’s a simple duty. The Citadel has done it for centuries.”

After passing through the courtyard, we crossed a small stone bridge across the Honeywine to the main tower. At the end of the bridge, a marble statue of my great-grandfather, King Jaehaerys, stood tall and proud, Blackfyre in his hands, the tip resting at his feet. An inscription on the base read:

_"He bound the land together, and made of seven kingdoms, one."_

“Huh,” I said, looking up at it. “When was this built?” I didn’t remember reading about this in the books. Even during Sam’s chapters at the Citadel.

“About fifteen years previous,” Ser Harrold said, a smile crossing his face. “His Grace was always proud of it. Said if he left nothing else, this statue would remind people of what he did; turned Seven Kingdoms into One.” I couldn’t help but agree. Despite the numerous personal failings of the man, he’d accomplished that much. Now, it was up to his heirs to live up to his accomplishments. I could only pray I would, even if I didn’t want to be anywhere near that damned uncomfortable chair.

Next to the statue, a bored-looking... acolyte? Novice?— a bored-looking dude stood looking around. I quickly moved over to ask a question.

“Excuse me, I was told to come here to speak with Archmaester Marlon, who do I talk to in order—” I began.

“So many words so early,” the man said, yawning. “I can see the Kingsguard behind you, I know you’re Prince Lucerys. Come now, the Archmaester is a busy man and you don’t want to waste his time,” he stopped for a moment, “Your Grace.” He swiftly added. I was shocked at the bluntness, but nodded and waved for my two escorts to follow.

Inside the building, there were huge shelves of books across multiple floors that I could see from the balcony. I was like a kid in a candy store, though Ser Harrold made sure I kept moving even as I gawked at the huge library. We passed through numerous finely-decorated corridors until we arrived at a large door. Our guide knocked on the door with a sigh.

“Archmaester, Prince Lucerys and his party have arrived,” he said. After a few moments, an aged voice called from the door.

“Very well, let them in,” he called. “Go back to sleep, I’ll summon another novice to escort them out!” The man nodded and pulled the wooden door open. I carefully stepped in with Sister Beth and Ser Harrold on either side of me. It reminded me of a professor’s office inside. An older man was seated behind a sturdy looking wooden desk, which had chairs set out on the opposite side for the meeting.

“Prince Lucerys,” the man said, resting his silver staff on the table next to him and bowing his head. “It is always a pleasure to see a member of the Royal Family take such a keen interest in learning. Your granduncle was my assistant when he was a novice, and I rarely met such an inquisitive soul. Even today he’s one of my most esteemed colleagues.” I nodded respectfully. Prince Vaegon was the Archmaester of Mathematics, at only forty-one. I had something I could send to him, but I’d hold off on that until I could get Runciter to double-check something.

“Right, though, my granduncle isn’t why I wanted to talk,” I said. He nodded.

“Of course, Your Grace. You said you had something for my consideration? I have to admit, this isn’t exactly the step most go to— most will give something to my assistants to look over before bringing it to me,” he said. I had to make a show of having Ser Harold explain what he meant to me; I couldn’t break character as a seven-year-old quite yet.

Even if it just meant I couldn’t use big words.

From the bag Ser Harrold carried, I pulled out a small collection of papers sewn together. I’d had to rewrite it twice, and then a third time with Runciter’s assistance, to make it anywhere near presentable— even then, I’d had to ask another Maester for clarification since, despite Runciter’s incredible skill at most things, he sucked at medicine.

“I had a dream one night about a year ago,” I explained. “Both of my grandmothers died in childbirth, and this came to me in that dream, I think it could help prevent it.” The Archmaester took the papers and began to look at them. "I had Maester Elwyn help me," I said, only half-truthfully, stating the name of Runciter's assistant in Medical matters, "he's why it looks good instead of like I was talking randomly about it."

"Well, it's certainly very detailed," he said. "Elwyn should be about ready for something of his own." He quietly began to read the paper more intently, silently flipping through the pages. I could tell he was paying attention. At least _someone_ could see the point.

“Y-Your Grace,” he said after a moment, looking up from the pages. “This tool… I care not from where it came, yet what it could do… it could save so many lives. Far too many babes are stuck in birth, and this… this could also help in other circumstances.” I smiled and nodded. "It's somewhat crude, and it could take some time to be made well and to train our Maesters in their use, yet the potential of it is incredible."

“Yes… I hope many lives can be saved with it. I just ask that it be accredited to me, otherwise spread it far and wide,” I said. “I do have other things to be given to the Citadel as well, that’s just the big piece.”

“Of course, anything else you have to give, I’ll take,” he said. I grabbed several scrolls out of the bag Ser Harrold held and placed them on his desk.

“Copies of thirteen of the missing scrolls of _The Fires of the Freehold_ , I bought them off a Volantene Merchant; the other eight I don’t have, unfortunately,” I began. “Also this copy of a book on most of the Valyrian Forty Families from about a century before the fall of the Freehold,” I said, setting the thicker book down. “And this is a collection of the myths and legends of the Old Gods of the Forest across the North.” The Archmaester nodded in appreciation.

“I believe Archmaester Alliser will be very appreciative. He’ll probably be hounding you for years to come to find the remaining copies of _The Fires of the Freehold_ ,” the Archmaester laughed. “I might well ask some newer Maesters to go back with you to King’s Landing to see if you have anything else for them. Now, unfortunately, I do have a meeting with the Conclave shortly; is there anything I can do for you before you go?” I thought for a second, before answering.

“Could I read the copy of _Blood and Fire_ you guys have?” I asked. The Archmaester frowned and shook his head.

“No. Even I’m not allowed to take that out of it’s home without approval, young one,” he explained. “Our copy is rather old, and the Conclave just refuses to get around to having it copied down. I believe they think it’s cursed. If we ever can get it copied down, I’ll make sure to write to you to read it.” I gave a smile of appreciation, as several more assistants came to file the less important books while the Archmaester packed my scroll on forceps into a basket on his desk. One assistant told us he’d escort us out, and I happily followed.

“I’m honestly surprised,” I admitted. “I thought there’d be more resistance to it.” Sister Beth smiled at me.

“He was honest in his words,” she said. “He hopes it’ll help people. And now he respects you greatly.” We walked back to the Hightower as more people began to leave their homes and go about daily business. We’d be on our way back to King’s Landing soon, but I’d accomplished the main thing I’d wanted to do here.

_ Now, hopefully, I can do this again, assuming my father doesn’t piss off the Hightowers in this timeline… oh, who am I kidding, he totally will. _


	6. Chapter 2

“Come on, cousin, or we’ll miss the melee!” I sighed as the bubbly girl pulled me by the hand to the stall where the Royal Family sat. The girl was my cousin, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, The Realm’s Delight. We both took seats in the front row as the many warriors rode about on horseback, knocking weapons from each others’ hands or otherwise knocking them from their horses. I mostly just nodded along as Rhaenyra excitedly pointed out each of the houses’ livery on their shields or tabards.

It’d only been a few months since Viserys had been coronated at Oldtown. Now, a great tourney had been organized at Maidenpool, where I now sat, next to Rhaenyra, watching as fighters fell, one by one. I didn’t understand why this had to be held, I guess it was a show of unity? I didn’t really care, though watching the bouts was fairly fun.

The last two in the melee were my father, Prince Daemon, and some knight whose sigil neither Rhaenyra nor I recognized. The two crossed weapons multiple times as they rode past each other, before the nameless rider whacked my father’s hand with a morningstar, sending Dark Sister into the dirt, winning the melee. I turned around as my uncle climbed off his chair and descended to where the rider came up and presented the victor’s laurel to him. I hopped up, Rhaenyra right behind me, as I walked over to wear the knight sat on his horse.

“Ser, what is your name? I must know who could have defeated my father!” I said, with a huge smile on my face.

The smile faltered for just a moment as the helmet came off and I saw the features. Shit. The knight seemed to not notice as he looked at me with a respectful smile, though it got more genuine when he saw my cousin next to me.

“If it would please Your Graces,” he said in a clear Stormlander accent, “I am Ser Criston Cole. Prince Daemon fought well, he is a truly skilled opponent.”

I tried not to scream internally as he spoke.

Is it too late to ask father to kill him the same way The Mountain killed that one dude in canon? I assumed it probably was, as my uncle would recognize that and would get my father exiled too early. I simply gave Cole a smirk as the people began filing out of the stands, and I continued walking, waving to Cole behind me, though Rhaenyra stayed standing in front of him, only to have the laurels placed on her brow. I groaned as Rhaenyra came running up to me, bouncing in excitement. I really, really want that guy dead!

A great feast was thrown that evening, and I was, once again, seated next to Rhaenyra. I knew what Viserys was doing, or maybe it was Aemma’s idea, though they were being a bit heavy-handed with it. It was the same thing that had been done with Prince Aemon and Jocelyn Baratheon, they had been sat next to each other at feasts until they couldn’t be separated. It didn’t matter to me, though, Rhaenyra was quite fun to speak with, and she could keep and retain information better than most people I knew. And her High Valyrian was spectacular, and I heard it quite often since most of our conversations were in it. At least Viserys didn’t make a scene, Aemma seemed to keep him from saying anything. Gods, I loved that woman. Only 21 and kept the King from doing anything stupid.

The feast eventually dispersed, and the next day came, with me once again sitting next to Rhaenyra, who was still wearing the laurels given to her by Ser Criston. It made me want to kill him even more… wait, was I jealous? Oh, I was certainly jealous. Damn it, why was that knight so hot! The joust kicked off as the various knights rode… and Criston had been given Rhaenyra’s favor happily.

Eventually, it came down to the finals, Ser Criston Cole v. Prince Daemon Targaryen. I was positive that this match hadn’t been the finals in canon, because Cole had defeated my father and the Cargyll twins, only to be felled by some Mallister in the final tilt. I pulled out two gold dragons and smiled at Rhaenyra.

“These two dragons say that father wins!” I said, with a grin. She looked at me, then at the coins in my hand, and nodded, quickly retrieving two of her own.

“Ser Criston can beat him again!” she said. I shrugged as I put the four gold coins between us. I didn’t know how it would turn out, the matches were already different than the ones I knew. The two rode once, neither fell, a second time, neither fell. The third time, however, a lance struck true, as my father went flying off his horse and landed on his ass. I sighed as I slid the four gold dragons over to the cheering Rhaenyra. Criston did a victory lap around my father just to rub it in, then was given the laurel crown.

Predictably, he once again rode over to Rhaenyra and placed it gingerly on her head, her face red as a tomato but her smile as bright as ever. Carefully, I slipped my arm through hers and placed a hand on her elbow. I gave Ser Criston a measured glance as he seemed to nod before dismounting.

Upon his victory, the crowd once again filed into the castle, the feasting beginning all over again. So many of the Lords attending were just here to curry favor with my royal uncle, some names I recognized from the books, others not. It was so strange finally being able to put a face to many of the nameless words that my eyes had passed over years ago.

Rhaenyra was still at my arm, laughing at something the current fool – whose name I couldn’t think of – had just said… something about a Septon and a goat. I personally found it quite funny, and laughed loudly, but most of the guests looked scandalized. Eventually, at a lull in the conversation, Viserys motioned for everyone’s attention.

“I have an announcement to make!” he called out. “As his boon for winning both the melee and the joust, as well as with the agreement of my daughter, I have chosen to name Ser Criston Cole as my daughter Princess Rhaenyra’s sworn shield. May he have long and fruitful years of service to her!” The hall went up in cheers at the announcement. After a glare at him from my father, I gave him a shrug, and clapped for propriety’s sake. _Criston will remain loyal to Rhaenyra_ , I thought. _Or else I’ll enjoy watching him burn._ Wait, where had that come from? I really didn't like these random Targaryen thoughts!

At least everyone was relatively united right now. At that moment, I could categorize everyone into two categories: Blacks and Blues. Those that had supported Viserys at the Great Council, and those that had supported Laenor. I knew that eventually, more would split off, due to others being born and the succession getting very, very messy.

Of the Great Houses, I knew Houses Tully, Lannister, and Tyrell were Blacks, while Houses Stark and Baratheon had been Blues; House Arryn was… well, I still received letters from Jeyne constantly, and returned them happily, so I suppose House Arryn was whatever I wanted it to be. Lord Redfort was a far better Lord Protector than Yorbert ever could have been, anyway, and he clearly kept House Arryn’s interests in mind.

I knew from canon that the Blues, under Corlys Velaryon, would be absorbed into the Blacks as they coalesced around Rhaenyra, and my father’s supporters eventually would as well, while Otto, the current forefront of the Blacks, would go on to found the Greens. But more work had to be done. Rhaenyra had overestimated her support in canon, and while the Tullys, Arryns, and Starks had followed her, the Baratheons had betrayed her for a better offer, the Lannisters had jumped straight for the Greens, while the Tyrells had put their fingers in their ears, closed their eyes, and pretended nothing was happening as their bannermen slaughtered each other.

I grabbed a cup of water and drank it slowly, looking around the room. It was the calm before the storm, all of these lords would be taking sides soon. Even as everyone was drinking and eating and laughing, I knew they would be sizing each other up, planning power plays, and planning strategic marriages. Even at what was supposed to be a happy event, the game played on.


	7. Chapter 3

Being on dragonback was awesome! The world spread out far beneath me as father’s dragon rose higher into the air, leaving Maidenpool far behind. Up and up we went, until trees were nothing more than small specs, and the Kingsroad was but a small brown line. Once we’d reached our height, father had Caraxes do various things, like long dives and spins, eliciting happy and excited laughter from me.

Ever since he’d brought me back to King’s Landing, I’d been struck by the differences that my father showed around me. At all times when it was just us, he was always doing his best to make me smile and laugh. Yet, with others, he was just as cruel as he’d been described in the series. At the tourney, he’d thought I didn’t notice as he’d slit a man’s throat for cheating at dice, and ordered his friends to throw the body into the bay.

“Something troubling you, Lucerys? You’ve been staring at Caraxes’ neck for some time now. I know he’s a beauty, but you can’t appreciate true beauty until you look away for a moment,” he said. I blinked and started looking at something else, trying to think about what to say back to him.

“It’s Rhae’s new sworn shield. I don’t like him,” I said. “He- he-” I tried to find the words but I just couldn’t. I heard a deep sigh behind me.

“I saw how you looked at him when his helmet came off. Your face paled and your smile wavered. You were nervous when you saw him, but you’ve never seen him before. Unless… you have,” he mused. He leaned forward so I could see him directly. “Where have you seen him before, Lucerys?” At hearing my name, it instilled a sense of calm in me.

“I… a dream, father,” I said. It wasn’t entirely false, I’d had a nightmare of witnessing the Dance happening in front of me all over again not a week past, with only minor variations. “Ser Criston… he betrayed Uncle Viserys, and killed my baby sister before she could ever draw breath!” I said, forcing the tears to come, but it turns out I didn’t really need to force them, I had always had great pity towards Rhaenyra for losing her daughter; in my last life I’d been devastated to learn twin cousins I’d been so excited for had been stillborn, after all, and I couldn’t bear seeing anyone go through that, ever again. I heard Daemon take deep breath inward as his eyes observed me, but my face remained resolute. After a moment, he nodded. When he spoke again, it was in High Valyrian.

“Has Runciter yet told you of Daenys the Dreamer in your histories?” he asked. I shook my head, not seeing where he was going with that. “Daenys was the daughter of Lord Freeholder Aenar Targaryen. In her dreams, she dreamt of a great eruption wiping out Valyria. Aenar believed her, selling all of his property in Valyria and calling in every favor he had to be named Archon of Dragonstone for fifteen years. Twelve years after his flight, the Doom wiped out our homeland, and before the end of his official term as Archon, the other three families of Dragonriders that had survived alongside us had perished, either killed by the mobs of Lys and Tyrosh, or marched off to Valyria and died.” He looked straight back at me.

“Dreams of the future once saved our family. It wouldn’t do to not believe you.” He looked back ahead of us, the green rushing past us. I looked down. Was it one of the prophetic dreams of this world? I was from two lineages that could give that power, so I supposed it could be, but I really hoped it wasn’t. Prophecy tended to bite you in the ass. “How long into the future was it, do you believe?” I laughed, despite myself, answering back in High Valyrian.

“A long time, not sure how long, but Uncle Viserys looked really old,” I replied. He chuckled and ruffled my hair.

“Worry not about that up-jumped steward from the Stormlands. I will ensure our House’s safety,” he said. I nodded, closing my eyes tight. I knew it was wrong, Ser Criston had been loyal to Rhaenyra for many years, after all, and hadn’t committed any crime. But there was nothing else I could do. No prayer I could offer up for forgiveness. _Cersei was right_ , I mused, _you win, or you die_. “My brother is stubborn, however. I’ll not leave you alone with him, this a vow, until the day he is dealt with.” I nodded again. I knew father couldn’t just kill Ser Criston; he was technically highborn, and a member of the Royal Court, besides. This was long before my father had made his connections in Pentos or gone off on his very violent drunken bender of a midlife crisis in the Stepstones. Or, I suppose for father it was a drunken bender, and for Corlys it was a midlife crisis.

“Will Ser Otto be okay with that?” I asked, continuing in High Valyrian as best I could. I saw his face scowl at the mention of Otto Hightower, but I had to do this part. “Uncle Viserys would take this to him, what would he say? Something about a bad dream, I think,” I said. Father placed a land on my shoulder reassuringly.

“If my brother refuses to act, I will do what I must. Our family will not be harmed,” he said. Much of the rest of our trip was in silence. We had left at mid-morning, and I finally saw the sunlight reflecting off of the Red Keep as the sun was setting. Swiftly, Caraxes circled the Dragonpit as the Dragon Keepers rushed out. Once Caraxes was on the ground, father and I dismounted, the keepers taking his harness and saddle off, and chaining him. Father made a small snap of his whip in the air, and Caraxes walked into the pit. The dragon had spent many years here, it knew what had to happen.

Father procured a horse for us right after, riding through the streets of King’s Landing. It was fairly active, but the smallfolk cleared the way quick enough. I was surprised that no one had said anything, but father wasn’t exactly well known on the streets yet. We eventually arrived in the courtyard and dismounted, before a servant ran out to meet us.

“Your Grace, the Lord Hand has summoned a meeting of the Small Council, and requires your presence,” he said, with a deep bow. Father rolled his eyes and gave a groan of annoyance.

“Very well, tell _Ser_ Otto I’ll be along shortly,” he said, clenching two fists. As soon as the servant was out of earshot, he switched to High Valyrian.

“How dare he summon me like some common servant! Him, who is but the brother to the Lord of Oldtown! If his daughter wasn’t such a good fu-” he suddenly seemed to remember I was there and stopped. I rolled my eyes at that, but didn’t betray any emotions. “Come along then, Lucerys,” he said, switching back to the Common Tongue, “I still don’t have a damned cupbearer, so you’ll have to suffice.” I nodded and followed behind him, making sure to order a servant to bring some wine and a goblet to the Small Council chamber.

I followed my father into the chamber as the servant quickly passed me the flagon and goblet. I could barely hold the flagon, but I at least managed to pour a goblet without spilling too much of it. The servants quickly cleaned up the spill behind me as I handed the goblet to my father. He took a deep drink as he entered and sat calmly at his seat, handing the goblet back to me as he threw his feet up on the table, clearly not caring about etiquette in the slightest. _Stay classy, dad._ I thought as the other members of the Small Council filed in. Father finished his drink and handed the goblet back to me as I backed up to a side table where I could refill the wine as he needed.

The first to arrive was Lord Lyman Beesbury. He’d been a member of the Small Council for nearly two decades during my great-grandfather’s reign, but had finally been allowed to retire when Uncle Viserys had ascended the throne… only for Father to grow bored with the job and Uncle sending a raven for the man to return, which he had done after naming his son as Acting Lord… who might as well be the Lord, the man never left King’s Landing anymore. In another time, Lord Lyman had been the only member of the Small Council to remain loyal to Rhaenyra, and had his throat opened by Criston Cole for that loyalty. I gave him a nod.

“Lord Lyman!” I called to him, “Congrats on becoming a grandfather again!” The man smiled and gave me a polite bow with his head.

“Thank you, Prince Lucerys. It is much appreciated. I will soon be returning to Honeyholt to meet little Alan, but there is much that must be done before then,” he replied. Soon after, Grand Maester Runciter hobbled in, sitting in his seat. _So, that’s the Master of Laws, Master of Coin, and Grand Maester,_ I thought. _So, just the Hand and the Master of Whispers left._ Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne was still with Uncle Viserys in the Riverlands, and the Master of Ships position was semi-officially vacant. Uncle Viserys told anyone who asked that it belonged to Corlys Velaryon and it would be waiting for him when he came to claim it… not like that was ever going to happen. I remembered from canon that Viserys had eventually given up on Corlys and appointed Ser Tyland Lannister to the position, but that wouldn’t be for a number of years yet.

Eventually, the old Lord Jon Rosby, Master of Whispers, managed to limp through the door, leaning on his cane, before sitting down in his seat. I knew the man was going to die soon, but he seemed insistent on doing his duty until his heart gave out. Last through the door was Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King himself. He gave both me and my father a glare, before finally taking his place at the head of the table.

“Prince Daemon,” Otto began, “I've told you and His Grace before, do not think the Small Council Chambers are the proper place for a child.” Father scoffed as he held out his hand, and I handed him his refilled wine cup, that he immediately began to drink from.

“Please, _Ser_ Otto, it is hard to find trusted cupbearers in these times, and there are few better than your own blood for such a role. Lucerys may be young, but he performs these duties well. He’ll make a fine squire when he is a bit older,” he said. _Only my father could think of a way to make knighthood seem like an insult_ , I thought. My father was fond of reminding Otto that he was no Lord, only the younger brother of the Lord of Oldtown, and thus always reliant on someone else’s courtesy, with nothing to call his own.

I knew it was not his power that had brought him here, but his mind. My great-grandfather had brought him here to counter Corlys Velaryon, and he’d become the proto-Tywin Lannister in the meantime, effectively ruling the realm while the Kings he served did little or nothing. Meanwhile, my father was fucking his daughter, and Otto hated him, and by extension me, for that. Meanwhile, Otto grit his teeth so hard I thought he was Stannis Baratheon for a second, before remembering that The Mannis was so much more awesome than this Tywin-wannabe.

“Fine,” the Hand spat out, “but he is not to speak, only serve you wine.” So the Small Council meeting went on around me, as I listened carefully to the different affairs of the realm they spoke of, while doing nothing but holding a wine cup. I did, however, perk up when they began speaking of King’s Landing.

“The City Watch is suffering significant issues; corruption is rampant, and the Commander has been caught openly taking bribes by my agents,” Lord Rosby said. “He must be replaced imminently, and someone proper put into place, Your Grace.” Father finished his sip of wine and handed the goblet back to me.

“Lord Rosby, I missed the part where this was my problem,” he said. Otto turned and glared at him once again.

“Prince Daemon, you are the Master of Laws. The Goldcloaks are under your purview,” he growled out. Father simply shrugged and reclaimed the wine cup from me. As he did so, I leaned down to whisper to him.

“Mayhaps you could do something about the City Watch?” I asked. Father scoffed at me.

“And what exactly could I do? Anyone who could reliably replace the current Commander is just as corrupt as him, if not more,” he whispered back. Before I could reply, Otto began to speak again, and I groaned as the two began arguing until Otto adjourned the Small Council for the day.

I was relieved when it finally ended. First Small Council meeting I attended since getting back ended in fighting. I was certain that was a bad sign.


	8. Chapter 4

A week after our return, the rest of the royal party finally returned, riding through the Dragon Gate in a grand procession up to the Red Keep. Most of that week had been spent in the training yard with my father, getting put on my ass the entire time. I’d been immediately glomped by Rhaenyra upon her arrival, who explained – or at least tried to – how Viserys had taken care to stop at every major castle on the Kingsroad on his way back to King’s Landing, doubling their travel time. Each one, though, had gone out of their way to outdo the previous home, so she’d eaten very well.

We, unfortunately, weren't together again for long, however, as father once again summoned me to be his cupbearer for a Small Council meeting. I was sure Otto hoped that, with Uncle Viserys back, he could keep a handle on Father. I chuckled to myself as I knew that wasn’t true. Bidding Rhaenyra goodbye, I changed into a nice black doublet, and prepared for another session of listening to Otto and Father screaming.

The entire council swiftly assembled, with many more flagons of wine due to Uncle Viserys also requiring it. Thankfully, though, Uncle Viserys had his own cupbearer, a boy who I couldn’t recall the name of. Once everyone was in attendance, Viserys gave Father a measured glare.

“Daemon, feet off the Small Council table, we are here to discuss business,” the King commanded. Father rolled his eyes and took his feet off the table as Otto looked on with glee. To which, father gave him a rather obscene hand gesture – he totally flipped Otto the bird – before taking his cup of wine from me. Otto’s facial expression didn’t change in the slightest.

“Very well, Your Grace,” Otto began, "Lord Rosby has given us many reports that the Commander of the City Watch is taking bribes in exchange for ignoring certain crimes taking place in the city, or to actively partake in crime. The Captains that aren’t partaking in these crimes are unable to fight back. The Captain of the Lion Gate, a man I personally placed on the Gold Cloaks, was found dead before you arrived, Your Grace, we are currently searching for a proper man to replace him.”

“Then sack the Commander, and put a proper one in his place. This doesn’t seem difficult,” Viserys said, putting his hand on the bridge of his nose. Otto grinned at that, seeing potential victory. I lightly tapped Father on the shoulder to get him to pay attention.

“See, Your Grace, I wish to, but your brother is actively refusing to sack him,” he said. Father slammed a hand on the table; it was a bit over dramatized, of course, he’d seen this coming.

“It’s not that simple, _Ser_ Otto,” Father growled. “I have had my people doing sweeps; none of the Captains that aren’t overtly corrupt have the training or the equipment to act as Commander. They are an underequipped and understaffed mess, and anyone not corrupt we appoint will be found dead in the Blackwater before the moon’s turn, just like Captain Jon, who you seem to have forgotten the name of.” Otto glared back at Father. _Oh boy, here we go again._

“Then fix it, Prince Daemon! That is your job. Except you won’t, because you never do it!” Otto growled. Father stood up to respond, but before any words could come out, Viserys slammed a hand on the table.

“Enough, Ser Otto, Daemon!” he yelled. “Summon Commander Jasper, by your own hand, Ser Otto, so he doesn’t suspect anything. Everyone except Daemon and my Hand, out! Cupbearers, stay!” I grinned as I heard the second part. I didn’t want to miss this. While Uncle Viserys hated conflict, he really could throw the book at people when he wanted.

Some time later, Commander Jasper stepped into the room, decked out in his ceremonial armor that must have been very expensive to forge. The man didn’t even _try_ to hide how corrupt he was. Yet, everyone kept a good poker face as they looked at the man. I just wondered how screwed he was. Probably very, but I couldn’t show anything.

“Commander Jasper, thank you for answering my summons,” Viserys said, putting on a jovial grin. “I would like a report on what the Watch has been doing recently.” Jasper nodded and began to give a report that I knew was bullshit after listening to Lord Rosby’s words on it. Though, I said nothing as I served father more wine. When Viserys’ cupbearer went to do the same, Viserys sighed.

“Symond,” he said. _Oh, so that was his name._ “Just leave the flagon on the table. Luke enjoys these, I know you don’t. Head home early.” Symond nodded, relieved, and quickly placed the flagon on the table and rushed out of the room. I flinched as I heard my nickname, but made no mention of it. Commander Jasper looked completely oblivious to what was about to happen to him, though. I wondered how he got the job in the first place… oh right, because Ser Donnel lost his mind after getting bashed in the head during a tourney some years back. He’d finally died shortly before my father’s appointment as Master of Laws.

After Commander Jasper finished his report, Viserys looked at the report he’d been given by Lord Rosby, and raised a hand. In moments, the doors were pulled open and men in Targaryen and Hightower livery marched in and surrounded the Commander.

“Ser Jasper of High Mountain, you have committed many crimes against the crown; smuggling, embezzlement, taking bribes, perversion of justice, and malfeasance of all kinds. You _will_ confess the names of your conspirators; but if you confess now, leniency will be shown,” Otto said. The moron just looked confused.

“What ever-” he began, but I just looked at him after handing father his next cup of wine.

“The Lord Hand means that you can either sing the names here, or sing them on the rack. Your choice, Ser~!” I said in a sing-songy voice, with the most innocent smile I could muster. Was it a bad sign I could happily tell someone he was about to be tortured? Yeah, probably. There wasn’t much I could do about it, though. Westeros didn’t exactly make for a good environment for getting rid of those kinds of tendencies.

The man spilled all of the names immediately. Father and Ser Otto were, for once, united in their feelings of satisfaction. I was significantly less satisfied because I was made to write down the names, getting looks of disgust by some for my left-handedness.

“Very well. As promised, you will be given leniency, assuming the information is correct,” Viserys said, his gaze turning serious. “Take him to the Black Cells. If the information is correct, put him on the next ship to Eastwatch. If it’s wrong, send him to the Lord Confessor.” The guards hauled the protesting man off to the Black Cells, after ripping the badge of office from him. Viserys turned the badge in his hands, as he ordered one of the guards to get the rest of the Small Council back in there. Once everyone was assembled again, Viserys sighed deeply.

“It is obvious the City Watch is in bad shape,” he said. “Daemon, your job as Master of Laws was to prevent this. And with your argumentative nature with regards to our Lord Hand, few things can ever get done here on the Small Council. Therefore, I see no choice but to relieve you of your post as Master of Laws,” he said, as Otto’s eyes lit up like stars, “and appoint you as Commander of the City Watch. You will clean this up personally,” he finished. He concluded by taking the Master of Laws’ badge of office from Father and granting him the new one, that of the Commander of the City Watch. “Your new position starts tomorrow. Ser Otto, gather me a list of potential candidates for Master of Laws, until then, you’ll be handling those duties. Everyone else, dismissed!”

I followed Father from the room as we returned to his apartments, him ordering servants to bring us some lunch. We sat down at the table in his solar as servants began to bring us food.

“Tell me, Lucerys, does that dwarf have any additional info on the streets?” he asked. I rolled my eyes. Just because I paid the fool to tell me information didn't mean I was suddenly Varys. Despite what all those Self-Insert fanfics liked to claim, you couldn't just make a Spy Network before you were 10. It took far more work... in my case, I was just paying off Mushroom to tell me whatever he overheard; hardly a network. It wasn't exactly the most secure method, but it would do until my father got his spies everywhere. At least there weren’t tongueless children in the walls yet, so I could talk straight enough with him.

“Nothing that Lord Rosby didn’t say,” I replied. “And the list that Ser Jasper said is correct.” Father nodded as the meal continued.

“You’ll do good,” I said, smiling. “I dreamt it, the watchmen will follow you to the end of your days.” That seemed to nurse his pride as he took a drink of wine. Of course, I didn't dream a thing for the past week. Not that it was a bad thing, the dreams gave me headaches and heartburn on the _better_ days. After lunch, I went to the godswood to relax. I rarely prayed anymore, not much point, but it was a quiet area, where I could collect my thoughts before the days went on. When my time in the godswood was done, I wrote a list of names I’d been given, before handing it to my father at dinner.

The next day, Father started as Commander of the City Watch. Within hours, all but two Captains were dismissed, and new ones had been raised up. All but one of the dismissals were by Dark Sister to the body. When the day had ended, the hierarchy had been entirely shaken up. The next day, men began being brought in on rotation for weapons training, and father paid his own money to have all the Watchmen equipped with the same equipment: a dagger, a sword, and a cudgel. Their armor was made all the same, and outfitted with a golden cloak. When I visited the barracks with Ser Harrold watching over me, I already heard their new nickname being passed about.

When I wasn’t with Father in the city, I was playing with Rhaenyra up in the Red Keep, often in some of the gardens. It was always fun to play with her, even if I had to listen to her gush about Criston Cole, it was worth it to see her smiling face. And soon, the year turned, from 104 to 105 AC. And I had great reason to hope for an even better year than the previous.


	9. Chapter 5

The sounds of the sea birds sounded through the air as I looked out over Blackwater Bay from the deck of the ship. The _Prince Aemon_ was the current flagship of the Royal Fleet, and currently acting as a transport to Dragonstone, where Viserys had decided to move the court for a few months. Next to me, Rhaenyra was looking at the bright water with an even brighter smile.

“It’s so pretty out here, smells nice, too!” she said. I sighed at her excitement and joined her watching the ocean. Though, that quickly turned into playing tag on the deck of the ship for most of the day. During the night, I stayed awake with a lantern, reading the various books I’d brought with me. That night, I was surprised to receive a visit from Queen Aemma, accompanied by one of the Cargyll twins; I couldn’t tell them apart. Smiling, she sat down at the foot of my bed, her blonde hair touching the bed as her lilac eyes looked into mine.

“You read even more than Rhae,” she said, as Cargyll moved to the corner of the room. I smiled brightly at her, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t die. I closed the book and rested it on top of me. I tried to think of something to say, and a quote from Jojen Reed came to my mind.

“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies,” I said. “The man who never reads lives only one.” Aemma laughed at that, the same laugh I always heard from Rhaenyra when we were playing. It only made me smile more. Aemma had always tried to make time for me, being almost my mother for the past few years.

“My niece is fond of you,” she said, making my head shoot back up. “She writes to me with every letter she sends you, and is always happy to receive more from you.” I tried to resist blushing in embarrassment. _You save one girl from a marriage to your grand-uncle and now she thinks you’re her hero._ Aemma started laughing at my embarrassment.

“Aunt Aemma, please!” I begged, but she just ruffled my hair. I playfully pushed her hands away as she backed up across the bed. Her face turned serious after that, but still trying to keep a happy outlook.

“I came here to tell you… it’s Ser Otto,” she said. I looked at her, worried. “He has been attempting to get Viserys to send you back to the Vale with your father. Claims it’s because Daemon has been a terrible husband and must return to his duties. He’s not wrong, but he’s only doing it for himself. While I have had… disagreements... with my cousin, I don’t want to see Rhae parted from her only friend.” I nodded. She smiled and kissed my brow, before standing up.

“I’ll make sure you’re safe, Lucerys. I promise,” she said, before leaving my cabin, Cargyll following behind her. I clutched the blankets, a warm feeling in my heart. I’d known of Otto’s pestering of Viserys… but it was kind of her to protect me from him. It made me chuckle, thinking of Otto. He’d hated the idea of a trip to Dragonstone, but Viserys had been insistent on moving the court there for at least a short time. And then “short time” had been extended to “a moon or longer” after Otto had argued about it. Even the King of Westeros wasn’t above extreme pettiness.

We arrived at Dragonstone late in the afternoon, three days after we’d set sail. The Royal Party made their way up the short road to the mountainside fortress, as I stared at the various rocks and beautiful darkened landscapes as we were escorted into the great castle. Gargoyles upon Gargoyles were everywhere, on the blackened stone that had been shaped by the Valyrians centuries ago.

Within, the Draconic Iconography littered the entire castle; all over the floors, walls, and ceilings were engravings, carvings, and paintings of all kinds of drakes. Servants carried all luggage off to different apartments around the castle, as I looked around. I saw several corridors, and wanted so badly to explore, but Father held the back of my shirt.

“Don’t wander off,” Father warned me, as I stared off down a corridor. “You can do that another day. My brother would be wroth should we miss what he has planned.” I nodded, trying not to show my disappointment. I let out a yawn as we were escorted into the dragon-shaped Great Hall of Dragonstone. Viserys carefully climbed to the lord’s seat and sat down, his small council stepping off to the side. Father and I stood off to the side as well, while Viserys began speaking.

“My Lords and Ladies, we welcome you to Dragonstone! Our ancestral home has suffered recently, but rest assured, we shall make this place a beauty once more! Now, I believe we should take petitioners for the day!” he said. Aaand I immediately zoned out as the petitioners that came with us began to use diplospeak and doublespeak… I just didn’t have the patience for it today. I had books I wanted to read! I thanked all the gods that I’d ever prayed to once it was finally over and we were free to head to our rooms.

I immediately took the next book I hadn’t finished and hid myself in the armoire within the large solar that connected the apartments Father and I shared with the ones that Viserys shared with Aunt Aemma and Rhaenyra. Thankfully, there _wasn’t_ a magical kingdom ruled by Jesus hidden inside of it. Though, that might not have been such a bad thing.

It was hours before any noise came from outside. Quickly, I blew out my candle and shut the door to the armoire all the way, before pressing my ear to the door. I heard voices approach, and I quickly recognized them. Uncle Viserys and my father.

“Close the door, Daemon. We don’t want Rhaenyra or Luke wandering in here while we talk,” he said, in a tone that left no room for argument. After hearing the click of locks, Viserys continued. “Now, what are we to discuss? You insisted on it being here, and you are clearly in a rush.” After footsteps approached the armoire, I heard Father speak.

“Symond is soon to squire for his cousin, is he not? You’ll soon need a new cupbearer,” he said.

“Aye, I will,” Viserys replied. “I’ve half a mind to summon Corlys’ son to court to fill the role. Might finally shut him up for a few minutes if we have his son with us.” I heard father sigh.

“Brother, why not take my son as your new cupbearer? He’s skilled at the duties, having done them for me since your coronation, and knows how to stay quiet during anything important,” he explained. I nearly took a breath in, I didn’t know I was _that_ good a cupbearer.

“Daemon,” Viserys said, before letting out a long-suffering sigh. “Lucerys is a grand cupbearer to you, yet I cannot take him as my own.”

“And why not, brother? Surely, having your nephew at your side is safe. And you owe me a debt, for placing me in charge of the filth. Otto’s men have started calling me ‘Lord Fleabottom,’ tarnishing my reputation. Letting Lucerys stay by your side would be acceptable as recompense,” Father argued. A hand hit wood outside the armoire.

“No, Daemon! Do you know what message that would send to the realm? It would tell all the lords that I saw him as my successor, and the various lords would begin to court him as a future King,” Viserys said. “Otto already grows in influence. He’d immediately set Alicent on him, and every Lord Paramount and Warden would send their daughters and sons to treat him as the future King. I still have hope that Aemma can give me a son; when you have a nephew that can become Prince of Dragonstone, then those lords and ladies who courted him will abandon him. I saw it happen with Rhaenys after Uncle Aemon died, and again after young Laenor lost at the Great Council. I do not wish for my nephew to be left alone.”

“Viserys, we both know Aemma cannot survive another birth,” Father said, his voice growing in volume. “She gave birth to your first son far too young, and we both know Rhaenyra nearly died twice before her first moon, she was too small. Every child since then has ended in miscarriage. It’s just like mother. If you’d just name me Prince of Dragonstone, you can let Aemma rest and spend her life with Rhaenyra, and she can marry Lucerys; the two can’t be kept apart, and your daughter will be Queen. Let Lucerys train at your shoulder to sit upon the Iron Throne—”

“Enough, Daemon!” Viserys yelled. “You are not the Prince of Dragonstone, and gods willing, you never _will_ be! This subject is settled. If you attempt to bring it up again, I swear to the Seven, I’ll make _Gwayne Hightower_ my cupbearer!” Heavy footsteps sounded, followed by the sound of a door slamming. Several tense moments passed, before footsteps came to the armoire, and the door flew open. Leaning against it, I yelped as I fell out, tumbling to the floor. I looked up, and Father stood over me. His face was twisted into one of rage, before calming into a smile. A twisted smile that one might expect a serial killer to wear.

“You heard enough, Lucerys,” Father said. “Shall you share your thoughts on the matter? You always do.” I knew that this wasn’t the time, but something about the way that Father said that told me he wasn’t asking. _Is this what others see? Is this the Rogue Prince that so many fear?_ I thought.

“Uncle Viserys doesn’t want you to succeed him,” I said, dropping any masks. “He fears making me cupbearer will indicate to the lords that you becoming Prince of Dragonstone is imminent, and shift politics utterly. After you and Lord Velaryon raised forces during the Great Council, he fears that happening again.” Father nodded.

“Otto wants Viserys to name Rhaenyra as his heir,” he spat. “No doubt he wishes to marry her to his son and control the throne. Grandfather brought Otto to the capital to act as a counter to Corlys Velaryon, but he’s more of a threat to us than Corlys is, now. He wants to rule in truth, with my brother just providing the feasts.” He looked at me a determined look. “Come, Lucerys. We’re going for a flight.” I nodded and followed along.

“Where to?” I asked. He gave me a wicked smile and looked at me side-eyed. I gulped. That was never a good sign.

“To find my grandparents’ dragons,” The Rogue Prince said definitively.


	10. Chapter 6

Carefully, I stepped on the stones heading up the Dragonmont. Father had shown me the exact location, and helped me to sneak my way out of the castle while Viserys held court. Shown me everything I needed to know to survive. I’d return to the castle and Father would hug me and raise me high, proud that I did what he'd wanted.

A crack of rock and the sound of sliding and a yelp made me turn around, frowning at my follower.

“Step carefully, Rhae! It’s a long way down!” I called, as I helped Rhaenyra back to her feet. She brushed some dust from her arm and nodded. According to Father, Aemma had given us unofficial permission to do this. I highly doubted it. Even so, it’d taken everything I had to convince her to not bring Criston Cole with us up the Dragonmont; it had taken me convincing her that wild dragons would probably want to eat him before she relented. Not that I would have minded, the guy was still a dick, no matter how unbelievably hot he was, but Rhae would have cried, and I didn’t want her to cry. And it would have been far too suspicious for him to die like that. Mostly the second one. Totally.

The Dragonmont billowed smoke, and the calls of dragons echoed everywhere. Definitely not the place you want to be without adult supervision. Yet, here I was, standing on the lava and ascending for what was probably the most dangerous rite of passage in all of Westeros.

After quite some more time of climbing up the mountain, we finally came to a wide crevice. Too far to jump. I held my breath and slowly made my way around the edge. As I did, I looked back up at the sky. No darkness. Good. The last thing we needed was the Cannibal flying by and deciding we’d be a nice lunch.

Right on cue, a dragon flew by, carrying a sheep in it’s claws. It looked down at us, huffed, then kept flying.

“Was that Sheepstealer?” Rhaenyra asked. I shrugged.

“Mud-brown dragon, carrying off a sheep? Who knows, it could be any dragon,” I said with a shrug. Rhaenyra jabbed me in the arm playfully. I laughed back at her, rubbing my arm where she hit it.

“Come on, Luke, we still need to find our dragons!” she said with a smile. Soon after, we continued scaling the Dragonmont, carefully working out way toward the northern side of the island. Sheer cliffs, brimstone, and plenty of hatchlings dotted our travel path. None of them interested us, though.

Finally, we approached a large crater, where we crouched behind the crater wall. Before Rhaenyra could say anything, I pointed up the mountain, where a grey dragon flew by, before vanishing into the smoke.

“Grey Ghost,” I whispered. “Father showed me how to spot him when he’s not busy messing with the Cannibal.” Rhaenyra nodded in awe. I waited a few minutes to make sure that said crazy dragon wasn’t right behind Grey Ghost, and I poked my head over the crater rim. At the bottom rested two dragons, one of bronze and one of silver. I smiled. Vermithor and Silverwing. I’d hoped for Rhaenyra and myself to claim the two, and it was getting close to such a thing happening!

“I’ll go down first, follow me down when I wave!” I whispered. Rhaenyra didn’t look happy, but bit her lip and nodded. With a deep breath, I pulled myself onto the wall and began to carefully make my way down to where the two dragons were laying, content with life.

Some time later, I finally reached the bottom. Looking up, there was still no Cannibal. Well, that’s good. I slowly approached the two dragons. After a few moments, Silverwing opened her eyes and looked at me. I slowed down and stepped further from her. After a moment, she let out a huff of smoke and curled back up, uninterested in me.

I took a deep breath to steel myself. I just had to pretend there weren’t two giant lizards in front of me that could eat me in one gulp. Slowly, I approached the bronze dragon. After a few moments, he perked up and looked at me. I slowed down.

“Hey, it’s been a while, Vermithor,” I said. The dragon just stared. Well, it was worth a shot. “It’s a bit lonely out here. I brought a rider for Silverwing, too, so could you come back to King’s Landing with me?” Vermithor stirred a bit, but didn’t seem to move. I sighed and began to approach closer. “Come on, I’m trying here. I can get you a sheep back at the castle. Please?” I looked at Vermithor, who stared back, before slowly unfurling to full size. I almost peed my pants as he stood up and stared me down.

Getting into a stare-down with a dragon was decidedly _not_ on my list of ways to die. But, something in me compelled me to stand my ground. I stared back at Vermithor, despite everything else screaming at me to run. I wasn’t sure how much time passed, but eventually, Vermithor reared back and opened his mouth. I flinched and threw my hands up, as with a roar, Vermithor shot bronze flames into the air, close enough to me that I could feel the heat, but not close enough to hurt me. With his showboating complete, Vermithor crouched back down and lowered his head, continuing to stare at me.

“…so is that a yes?” I asked. Vermithor let out a puff of smoke from his nose in response. I supposed that was the best answer I was gonna get from him. Expecting any actual answer would probably be a sign of madness. I smiled and waved to Rhaenyra, before I slowly moved to Vermithor’s side, and pulled myself onto him, the same way Father did with Caraxes. Carefully, I wrapped my arm around his neck as best I could and got myself snugly rested on his scales. The spines dug into my arms, but I ignored it as best I could.

A few minutes later, Rhaenyra finally arrived at the bottom, smiling at me before looking at Silverwing.

“Hi, Silverwing!” she cheered. The silver dragon lifted her head and huffed. Rhaenyra slowly walked forward. “I’m Rhaenyra; I’m always with Luke, so we can fly together and you can be with Vermithor still! Wanna let me ride you?” Silverwing stared at her, before opening her mouth and yawning loudly, and crouching down. Rhaenyra cheered happily and ran to mount the dragon. _The three largest dragons in Westeros are now ridden by children. This isn’t worrying at all._

Finally, I took a deep breath to prepare myself for what came next.

“ _Fly!_ ” I called in High Valyrian. With a jolt, Vermithor stood up. Silverwing whined, and Vermithor huffed in response. _They’re probably talking, can’t quite tell what they mean, though._ Before I could reason anything further out, Vermithor surged forward, and I closed my eyes, holding on as tight as I could, as I felt his wings flap hard, again and again.

My heart pounded and the wind whipped past my ears, and I could barely keep my breathing straight. I felt hot tears run down my face, I was so scared. _Kingda Ka_ didn’t have shit on this. My arms felt hot and they hurt more than I could ever have imagined, but I refused to loosen my grip.

Then, the flapping slowed, though the wind remained steady. Even still, it felt like hours before I could stand to open my eyes. After a few moments, I finally began to open my eyes. Flying smoothly above the slopes of the Dragonmont, Vermithor expertly maneuvered, taking heed not to let me slip. Carefully, he began to make his way back toward the crater, where a spot of silver began to rise as well.

“ _Follow!_ ” I called as best I could. Carefully, Vermithor turned around in a wide arc and followed the other dragon. Soon, Vermithor caught up to Silverwing, flying below. After a moment, the silver dragon dove down, catching the attention of the people in the shore town below the castle.

A loud horn sounded, signalling the town to the arrival of dragons. Vermithor began to circle the castle, letting out a loud roar. Rhaenyra, on Silverwing, landed first in the large yard near the stables. It seemed to be a rough landing, but I couldn’t quite tell. The crowd forming in the yard backed up as Vermithor began to slowly descend. I closed my eyes tight at he finally touched down, and I let go.

When I finally opened my eyes, I was met with looks of astonishment from most, and a look of gleaming pride from my father. I’d done everything he’d wanted. I’d claimed Vermithor and successfully gotten Rhaenyra to claim Silverwing. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Aemma looking on with a look of barely suppressed glee. _So she **was** in on it. I thought Father was bluffing to get Rhaenyra to agree._

“I… got… dragon…” I said, suddenly feeling really tired. Father rushed forward and caught me as I fell off of Vermithor’s back. I smiled up at him, then closed my eyes; sleep never hurt anyone, and while my arms hurt and were a bit wet, they’d probably feel better when I woke up.


	11. Chapter 7

A loud _**SNAP**_ broke me out of my thoughts as I stared out the window. I groaned. This was the third time I’d zoned out today alone. Ever since I’d come back on Vermithor, I could think of nothing but flying… yet, I’d been stuck inside for the past week, as I’d both burned and cut my arms by pressing them so hard onto Vermithor’s scales. Nothing got infected, thank the gods, but it could easily have gotten bad.

Even still, my mind was called back to the sky. Though, as it stood, Grand Maester Runciter was attempting to teach me something with mathematics, involving an abacus and a chalkboard. The Valyrians had invented Roman Numerals in this world, to no real surprise; but, apparently the Westerosi had adopted them, having no numbers to use on their own, besides the crazy shorthand used by Maesters. _Ugh._ I could do maths with them, but it wasn’t something I wanted to do. Three years of doing it in Latin Class had been enough.

“Please, Your Grace,” Runciter said. “Princess Rhaenyra finished already. You can be studious when you want to be. You and Elwyn created that device that still has the Conclave chittering about, and I know you have others in your head, so why can you not do simple sums for me?” Hearing those words, something in me snapped. I grabbed the chalk and stared down at what Runciter had written on the slate.

_The Sum of CDXCV and XVIII,_ it said. I took a breath and converted the numbers. _495 and 28. Simple stacking addition, then. Thirteen, carry the one. Twelve, carry the one again. 523. Wait, why did I need to set that up? Ugh, I’m an idiot! Overcomplicating things again! I could have just taken five from the 28 and gotten the number easily!_ I took a deep breath to steady myself and converted the number back. _500, that’s D. 20, XX, and 3, III. DXXIII._

I slid the slate over to the Grand Maester, a shit-eating grin on my face. “Will that be all, Grand Maester?” He gave me a stiff nod, and I turned and walked out the door, mentally punching myself.

_Stupid, Stupid! You shouldn’t have done that!_ I screamed in my head. _You’ve already screwed up several times with your dreams and your language, and now you brought out fucking Arabic Numerals! You weren’t supposed to bring that out until you had a household of your own!_

I tried to ignore my internal screaming at how badly I’d screwed up, I continued my way through the castle. I arrived back at the apartments and changed my clothes into my riding clothes, and then ran to where Sister Beth stayed. I simply told her that we were going to need Maester Alesander for the notes, and then I went off to where Father had told me to wait. The Citadel had sent two younger Maesters, and left Elwyn around as well; I knew they were supposed to be there to get reads on me, but I didn’t really care. The entire continent could know my personality so long as what I wanted got disseminated.

I arrived, only to the fact that various guards had turned the yard into a practice area for weapons. I looked around, and stood shocked for a few moments, before just sighing and accepting it. They’d probably move when Father got back. He was probably taking Rhae out flying first.

After a few minutes, I walked over to the weapons storage and retrieved my small bow, which rested next to Rhae’s. They were almost the same, bar the simple reversal. I walked up over to the archery targets, and began shooting at them. Thankfully, the others gave me a decent berth, facing the other way and all. For a time, the world seemed to vanish, there was just me, the target, and my bow.

Each shot started the same; grab one arrow, close my right eye, draw back, and attempt to hit whatever point I was aiming for. Every ten shots, I would check the wind direction and adjust accordingly. I continued to ignore everything around me, as the target became filled with more and more arrows. Finally, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up to see Father, standing behind me.

“Lucerys, we must be going,” he said, in a voice that welcomed no argument. I nodded and handed my bow and quiver off to one of the servants. “Your cousin is quite adept at reading what Silverwing wishes and how to fly her. Now, it is time for you to do the same.”

We soon arrived at the large open-air stables where our dragons resided. In contrast, Caraxes was happily snacking on a pile of mutton. I looked about, and saw the hulking form of Vermithor away from the others, eating away at his own pile of mutton. He was already saddled, but didn’t seem to mind. My great-grandfather had ridden him for nearly 60 years, after all, and he’d only died a year and a half ago. He’d probably spent most of his life with a saddle on. Silverwing was half-asleep not far away.

We waited for the dragons to finish eating before getting their attention. Father had carefully shown me the proper method. I walked a far distance from the other dragons excluding Vermithor and threw my whip up in the air, snapping it loudly. Vermithor immediately lifted his head up, and made his way over to me. I smiled at him and reached up my hand to scratch behind his neck as best as I could.

A few moments later, Father came up behind me and helped me into the saddle, helping me with the chains and showing me where to wrap them around myself and latch them, as well as tying the whip around my hand.

“All Dragon Riders have to do this when they first learn,” Father explained. “You’ll grow out of it, we all do eventually.” I nodded and smiled. Secure in the fact that I was as safe as anyone could be whilst on the back of a living weapon of mass destruction, he made an about face and marched over to his own dragon, swiftly mounting Caraxes and directing him next to Vermithor.

“When on the ground,” he called, “snap the whip in the air above his head. It will tell him to take off.” I nodded and, in a swift motion, cracked the whip above Vermithor’s head. The dragon pushed himself to his feet and began moving forward, jolting me about until I grabbed the front of the saddle to steady myself. With steady flaps, Vermithor lifted off the ground and took to the air. Holding my breath, I kept my eyes open this time, and couldn’t help but laugh as we rose higher and higher. Caraxes soon joined, circling around and gaining air, almost forming two halves of a circle if not for the height difference.

After several minutes, I could see the Dragonmont below, still smoking, as I snapped the whip again, directing Vermithor to stop rising and instead begin flying straight ahead. Father flew up beside me and flew close enough to call to me.

“We will fly once around the Dragonmont as your first test!” he called, before ordering Caraxes to dive, speeding off toward the volcano. I laughed out loud and ordered Vermithor to dive as well. I called out to Father as Vermithor flew past Caraxes, sticking my tongue out as him, setting off a race around the Dragonmont.

I lost. Badly.

I wasn’t sure if it was my lack of skill or just Caraxes’ speed, but Father beat me without any question. We stayed in the air for several more practice maneuvers, ensuring I knew the different commands for Vermithor with the whip… including barrel rolls. Because those were definitely necessary. Totally. Vermithor definitely seemed to enjoy them, maybe only because they drove me insane.

Eventually, we finally landed again, and the dragons were each given another sheep, after first making sure Sheepstealer wouldn’t just snatch them. Then, exhausted, we made our way back to the castle. My arms felt about ready to fall off, the bandages around them were thoroughly soaked in sweat; I’d have to ask Maester Elwyn to put new ones on.

Unfortunately, my hope of relaxing for the day was interrupted as, apparently, Grand Maester Runciter wanted to talk to me in the Chamber of the Painted Table. He also wanted Alesander, Elwyn, and Sister Beth to come with me. I prepared myself internally. I’d known this was coming since I started writing down stuff, but I didn’t think it’d be this soon. I just hoped Maester Alesander had his draft together.

I entered the Chamber of the Painted Table, to find that I was the last one there. Inside, Grand Maester Runciter, Maesters Alesander and Elwyn, along with Sister Beth and… Lyonel Strong? What was he doing here?

All were seated around a small end portion of the Painted Table. I slowly made my way over and sat down, bowing my head respectfully. After a pregnant silence, I looked up at the Grand Maester.

“You summoned me, Grand Maester?” I asked. I immediately mentally slapped my forehead as Runciter looked very uncomfortable. It was extremely bad form to imply that he had summoned me, as only the King was supposed to be able to do that. _Damn these Westerosi social norms._

“I asked you here, You Grace, because of the… odd numberings you gave me,” he said carefully. I nodded at Maester Alesander, who pulled out his notes and placed them before the Grand Maester. He looked down at the papers and began to nod.

“They’re Qaathi, Grand Maester,” he began. “Qarth still uses a similar one, but I found this variant to only be speculated. How our young princeling learned of it, I can’t even theorize. It’s a simple tens-based system, and takes far less ink.” Runciter kept reading. After several long moments, he looked back up.

“I believe I see where you are coming from,” the Grand Maester began slowly. “And I laud you for your creativity. However, I do not see what this offers us that we cannot do already.” Alesander looked at me and I smiled. He then produced a short letter.

“I presented it to Archmaester Vaegon when I was summoned to Oldtown,” he said. “Prince Lucerys gave me the idea, and I crafted it finely.” _Good lie._ I thought. _I completely created it for this world and he agreed to spread it. Glad Uncle Vaegon liked it._ “He stated that while he personally disliked how it looked compared to our own Valyrian Numbers, it could be written much faster and with less ink, as well as being simpler to keep track of. Unlike the shorthand we use for ravens, it would require no conversion, saving even more time.”

Runciter continued reading the thesis and went quiet as the hulking form of Lyonel Strong approached Alesander and me.

“Prince Lucerys,” he said, crossing his arms down at me. I gulped and looked up at him. This man was terrifying. Even knowing that he was actually a nice guy, he certainly didn’t mind turning on the intimidation.

“Yes, Lord Strong?” I asked. He walked closer, and stopped just short of putting a hand on my shoulder. _Touching a member of the royal family is punishable with the removal of that hand…_ I swiftly remembered.

“I’ve seen that look many times when my son says something,” he explained, leaning back on the Painted Table. “Tell me the truth; it wasn’t just an idea of yours, you made it. I still have friends at the Citadel who tell me about your ‘forceps,’ after all.” My heart started pounding in my ears. _Oh no… no, no, no, no no!_ I was so stupid. Lyonel had studied at the Citadel and presumably still had friends there. And despite his brutish looks, he was one of the smartest minds of this era— three links of steel, one of iron, one of yellow gold, and one of copper. Law, War, Economics, and History. And he’d figured me out with just a look. My mind was bouncing about, no one thought able to take hold—

I suddenly felt a hand touch my shoulder.

“Breath, young one,” I heard the Master of Laws say calmly. I looked up at him and realized I was trembling. I gave a hiccup and looked away from him. _These are people, not just words on a page._ I reminded myself. _He’s a father of four children._ It dawned on me that he just saw a scared child. I guess… I guess I was one. Even with all my memories… I was still a child.

Holding my breath, I nodded.

“Yes… I made it… Maester Alesander made it look nice; Uncle Vaegon knows, but no others,” I said, taking deep breaths to stop the shaking. “They truly are made from Qaathi numbers, but… I saw them in my head. It wasn’t my dreams. I don’t know how or why,” I said. “Please, don’t tell anyone, some look away or look scared, I don’t wanna be alone!” Worst part was, that wasn’t even false. I’d seen the worried looks people gave while talking to me, or that many tried to avoid talking to me if they could. All were adults, of course. Kids loved being around me, because I could run and play and had all kinds of random games from Earth with me. _It’s mostly hopscotch… not sure why most of the kids liked that._

I suddenly realized my mind was running again. _Why, why did **that** have to come with me?_ I hoped the autism hadn’t come as well; that would be hell to explain, considering that it was seen as mental sickness before the 1980s. Finally, Lord Lyonel snapped me out of my thoughts.

“Calm yourself. Your House possesses a great many gifts, none of which should be borne by a child. You bear no blame,” he said, as softly as a man like him could. I nodded, making sure the tears didn’t come. I already heard whispers that I cried far too much at court, but it was hard to do; the emotions came naturally, and came even harder now, far more than they ever had back home. I breathed deeply again, before looking at the Master of Laws.

“What would you have me do?” I asked. “I can’t… I can’t claim these, not yet.” Lord Strong ruffled my hair and then backed away. He thought for several moments before answering

“Be on guard, and start smaller. Items that might be said to be accidents,” he said. “You may leave now, Prince Lucerys, we’ll do the rest.” I nodded, almost in a daze. I was almost on autopilot, leaving the room and making my way to my rooms, and eventually just collapsing on to my bed, not knowing what the next day would bring.

Of course, the night wouldn’t be so merciful. I dreamt of a great titan standing on a cliffside, hiding within his hands three dragon eggs encased in rock. Within his hands, they began to crack and hatch, bursting forth three dragons as a star lit up bright red in the sky. And I awoke with a yelp.


	12. Chapter 8

As I walked through Dragonstone to the open air stable, I tried to avoid anyone else. My mind was swimming and felt far too hot down in my rooms; I needed the breeze, the relaxing feeling of the world beneath me. No one tried to stop me, and the Dragonkeepers were dutiful as always, saddling Vermithor and clearing a path for him to take off.

I held on as Vermithor took off, circling higher and higher. I rested a hand on his scales, feeling a wave of calm rush over me. Ever since I’d claimed him, my mind was always called to the air, while being close by calmed me. Father had told me that it was normal for fresh bonds to have strong effects, but he’d not taught me everything I needed to know yet. I knew Rhaenyra was much more stubborn than she’d been a week ago, but not what it’d done to me yet. I closed my eyes and rested my head on the warm scales of Vermithor’s neck, letting him fly wherever he wanted.

How long had it been, now, since everyone here was just words on a page? People in books I… or, at least, a part of me, read in High School, and now they were around me— Viserys as my uncle who just wanted to make everyone happy, Rhaenyra as my stubborn but well-meaning cousin… and the Rogue Prince as my kind of evil yet somehow caring father.

Even though I’d tried to avoid major things, I knew the world wouldn’t be the one I knew for much longer, if it even still was already. Rhaenyra had claimed Silverwing, and now the whispers around court were assuming that a betrothal announcement would be coming any day. Of course, that’s exactly what Father and Aemma had wanted.

Yet, Viserys was still the obstacle there. At first glance, he was impossible to take seriously; yet, he clearly knew how to read people and could seemingly charm anyone into at least listening to his point of view. He wanted those around him to be happy, but only insofar as it was simply personal. Otto Hightower ran circles around him and others politically, yet even that couldn’t push him any higher. My father wanted to become Prince of Dragonstone, but Viserys refused to grant it to him, hoping Aemma could give him a living son.

Aemma… I hadn’t wanted to care for her. I knew she was a dead woman walking, there was no way she couldn’t die. Yet… I couldn’t help but do so. She’d been the closest thing I had to a mother after Father had brought me to King’s Landing, always being there, soothing my fears, and being helpful wherever I needed it.

Even if it was just on nice embroidery to give Rhae for her name day.

I didn’t know what to feel about the Realm’s Delight. I couldn’t help but care for her, and she was my best friend… I knew what she became in that future that would never be. A woman used by those who wanted power, losing her children, her allies, and her supporters turning on her, and in the end never truly being acknowledged, only regarded as a usurping Princess who didn’t know her place.

I knew there were things I could do to help her, but I had to see if events went at all similar to the canon timeline… and even then, I’d still need to get some kind of influence. I’d been able to sit in on the Small Council back when Father served on it, but now I couldn’t, and there still seemed to be no chance that I could become my uncle’s cupbearer; not unless Aemma decided to throw her full lot in with Father. And what influence on information I had with Father had been reduced ever since he acquired his own spy network and started fucking Mysaria. I’d only met the woman twice, though she definitely had an aura of strangeness around her.

I knew there were a few avenues to power for me, but it ultimately was whether I would lean more into my heritage in the Vale, or whether I would join my father on his violent bender in the Stepstones. His partner in conquest had been the Sea Snake, after all, one of the most formidable minds of the Seven Kingdoms, who had come so close to being King-Consort himself, who Otto Hightower had been brought to court to counter.

I took a breath and made up my mind. I would have to make friends with the Sea Snake if I stood any chance at countering Otto Hightower. But I had to do so in a way that didn’t make him think he could control me. I sighed. That would take a long time. Thankfully, I had years before things got to that point. At the very least, I would need a hobby, and not one that drew as much attention to me— Lord Strong said that much, at least.

The thought came to me soon after— food! Cooking was the non-Luke part of me’s favorite hobby, I could recreate at least some of that. I couldn’t recreate all of it— much of it came from the New World, and I didn’t even know if this world had a western continent. Hell, making food could make me at least somewhat popular.

I opened my eyes and looked down at the ocean, then around… at more ocean. Shit. No land anywhere in sight. Okay, focus, this could be worse. I looked up and saw the still rising sun, to my right. So, I had to turn left. Bringing up my whip, I snapped it above Vermithor’s head. A moment later, he turned to the side and began flying straight west.

The ocean raced below me, as I ordered Vermithor to dive, his wings causing a spray of water to wash over me. He didn’t rise up into the air again until I saw land in the distance. Vermithor rose up and flew high above, as I looked down. _Vaguely hilly island, bunch of ships… well, I know where I am now, now I just need to get out of here before someone chases me down._ I snapped the whip again as Vermithor turned to fly southeast, thankfully no more dragons rose up from the island to follow.

It was a long time of open ocean after I flew from Driftmark, returning to just above the water, feeling the spray of water on my face. Soon, however, the smoke and mountain of Dragonstone came into view. Urging Vermithor higher, he flew in a circle around the large dragon-stable and descended carefully, before coming to a halt.

The Dragonkeepers on duty helped me down and took my whip, before feeding Vermithor. After a stretch, I walked back to the main part of the castle. I didn’t make it far before my path was blocked by Father, who looked… a mixture of annoyed and proud?

“Haven’t I told you that you aren’t to fly alone until you don’t need the whip strapped to your hand anymore?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “I needed to clear my head. I feel better now,” I replied. He didn’t seem to like the answer very much, but didn’t press me. That was a relief, I wasn’t sure how long I could try to avoid answering questions.

“Change into something respectable, Viserys apparently has a big announcement,” he said. I looked up.

“Think Aunt Aemma has convinced him?” I asked. He gave a cold smile.

“I surely hope our cousin has,” he said simply, before walking me back to our rooms. I changed into a nice tunic, and Father actually looked respectable for the first time in a fortnight.

We walked through the winding halls of Dragonstone, slowly up to the large great hall, where Viserys sat on the stone throne with Aemma next to him, whispering about something. I met Rhae’s eyes and she made her way over to me, smiling.

“Mother has been talking to Father, I think she got him to do something!” she said. I smiled back as she stood next to me, looking at Viserys as he began to end the conversation.

This was probably a turning point if she was right. If Rhaenyra and I were betrothed, that would shift politics over to Father permanently, and he would view himself as the rightful heir, no matter any proclamations made to the contrary, and everyone else would agree.

And if that happened, any real chance of getting the Velaryons on side was dead in the water; it’d be a Velaryon vs. Targaryen civil war with nothing being anywhere close to what I remembered… and fucking Otto Hightower would be the best ally I had against the mind of Corlys Velaryon… fuck, why were Westerosi Politics so fucked?!

I grabbed Rhaenyra’s hand and looked up at the throne, as Viserys finally stopped talking, and looked down at all of us, sparing a small smile for Rhaenyra. After letting everyone wait in anticipation for far longer than anyone should reasonably do so, he finally began to speak.

“We have a very important announcement to make on this day!” Viserys announced, standing up. I closed my eyes and squeezed my hand around Rhaenyra’s. “We are pleased to announce that the Queen is with child!” My eyes flew open and I looked at Aemma, who was smiling brightly. The entire room erupted in cheers.

_Oh. Oh shit._


	13. Chapter 9

It was over a month before we finally returned to King’s Landing. I had finally come to an understanding with Lord Strong, and he’d agreed to not reveal what I’d told him, in exchange for some favor in the future. _Fantastic. Because what I needed was to have a favor called in by the Master of Laws himself._

I’d secluded myself in the Godswood with Sister Beth and Maester Elwyn soon after we’d gotten back, bringing with me a piece of paper I’d written down years ago, during my earliest days in Westeros. I handed it to Elwyn, who read it over and nodded. Sister Beth read it over and chuckled. She was probably one of the best sources I had on things that the First Men used, as well things like Agriculture.

“Prince Lucerys,” Elwyn said, “are you sure about trying this? King Viserys may not take well to you doing these things.” I nodded. I knew that I had to try… even forceps may well not be enough. I didn’t want Aemma to die, nor did I want her baby to die. If Baby Baelon survived, then there would be no Dance, no Civil War, and my father would have to find other methods to power.

Elwyn set to work shortly after with the information I gave him as a guide. Alesander helped him with as much as he could while I tried to focus on everything except my incompetent attempts at uplifting. I upped the draw weight on my bow, continued training with swords, flew long hours on Vermithor, wrote plans for possible political upheaval, hoped to prevent Ser Otto from turning the Hightowers into the Westerosi Fujiwara, and attended whatever social functions I was expected to.

The largest one was a massive tourney held to celebrate Aemma’s pregnancy. As a joke, I decided to enter the archery competition. Maybe I could do something there. First shot, I got first place, bullseye very close to the center. Second shot, further back, I didn’t do nearly as well, but others were worse, somehow. My luck got better the third pace, and the fourth I managed to keep it close. People kept missing as we got further and further away… did they really not know how to shoot a bow well?

I was finally eliminated in the seventh round, with four others still in the competition. Beginner's luck, had to have been. There was a dirth of good archers around for the tourney. I did get to watch the squire’s melee. Watching all the kids beat each other up was an interesting pastime.

I recognized a few banners from around the Riverlands, and a few from the Vale, but none from the Stormlands. The Crownlands were all over it, though. Off to the side, I recognized a banner that seemed to be a stylized Royce symbol— probably some minor cadet branch. I resolved to check it out as soon as the mêlée here ended.

By the end, there were only some larger squires left, until only one was left, a particularly large boy wearing the emblem of House Strong. Afterward, he hopped off his horse, pulling off his helmet to reveal a baby-faced young man with a mop of brown hair and a bright smile. Many stood and clapped at his victory. I sighed and clapped along. He was a frat boy, and was definitely the father of Rhaenyra’s eldest kids in canon. He was also like 8 years older than me, so that wasn’t creepy at all.

He smiled and knelt before Viserys in the Royal Pavilion, who smiled and gave him some laurels. From not far away, Lord Strong gave a proud smile to his son. Harwin was probably going to be knighted in the morning. I gave a smile and nod to Lord Strong, before slipping out of the pavilion. Probably not the best thing to do without a Kingsguard present, but I’d slipped around the Great Council just fine, this would be far easier.

I approached the stylized Royce tent carefully, not wanting to be seen as any kind of threat; though, I was dressed in Targaryen colors, so it was rather obvious to anyone that I was from the royal family. I carefully approached, only for a large man to step out of it, wearing the ceremonial bronze armor of House Royce, sporting a simple goatee and short-cut hair. I gulped at seeing him as he looked down at me.

“Uncle Gunthor,” I said, my voice so quiet I thought he hadn’t heard me for a moment. But he nodded at me a moment later.

“Little Luke, I thought I’d find you here,” he said. I flinched at hearing my old nickname, but suppressed it. I was getting better with it, at least. “You’ve sought me out, would you care to walk with me?” I hesitated for a moment, but I was a dragonrider now, and Vermithor was in the dragonpit if I got into serious trouble. I nodded. He directed me to walk with him, in the general direction of the tourney grounds.

“I’d hoped you’d be here,” he said, after a few quiet moments. “I’d hoped to talk with your father and the King, about your mother.” I blinked and looked up at him.

“She is well, is she not?” I asked. Gunthor shook his head.

“Rhea is well. This visit is not on her health,” he said carefully. An unexpected voice sounded from behind me.

“Then what is it about, Ser Gunthor?” I turned and saw my father walking up behind us, eating an apple. _Stay Classy, dad._ Gunthor immediately backed up.

“Er, Your Grace, I was merely… I was thinking of a way to explain something to Luke,” he stuttered out. Father chuckled and stepped closer, a cruel smile upon his face, and put a hand on Gunthor’s shoulder.

“Then shall we talk, Ser Gunthor? You seem to have a tent nearby,” he said. Gunthor gulped and nodded. I grinned as we turned back around, walking back to the tent. After pushing aside the large tent flaps, we all stepped inside. Gunthor poured some wine and offered bread and cheese. I sat next to Father and stared. Gunthor looked at me, then back to my father.

“Allowing a child here for these important proceedings may not be wise, Your Grace,” he said. After a moment, he looked at me, then continued. "So, I know things like marriages and babes seem like a small deal, but there are small things that can affect big things, you understand me,” I nodded. “Thus, I would request that you remain outside the tent for this.” I shook my head.

“This is about Mother, I will stay,” I said, glaring at Gunthor as best I could. The man looked away for a few moments, before finally nodding in agreement. After a deep breath, he began.

“There is… concern, about the dearth of Royal Princes, and what that means for succession, of all kinds.” Gunthor watched Father’s face carefully, but Father didn’t seem to shift his gaze at all.

“Go on, Ser Gunthor,” he finally said. Gunthor nodded rapidly as his face paled.

“If the Queen does not birth a son for His Grace, many fear that she will not bear another living child,” he said. “Therefore, by the precedent of the Great Council of 101, you will almost certainly sit the throne after your brother, and Luke would follow you, likely with Princess Rhaenyra as his Queen.”

“And?” Father said. Gunthor huffed.

“Where would that leave Runestone? Even now, there are whispers that it would be improper to have a Prince so close to the succession to be sworn to any but the King,” he said. “Runestone would become property of the King, just as Dragonstone is… the Lords Paramount couldn’t stand for it; your great-grandsire, and his grandsire before him, swore to them that their lands would not be intruded on.” I blinked and thought about it. That… was an actually decent point. Runestone being attached to the Crown, or being part of the Crownlands would almost certainly scare the Lords Paramount. After all, cutting off lands from loyal lords and giving them to your own house would make them fear that Valyrian Dragonocracy was back.

“I know how that works, Ser Gunthor, I was Master of Laws, after all,” Father said sitting up straighter. “I do, however, not see the problem. Runestone is sworn to the Eyrie, and unless Ser Otto has truly gone mad, that won’t change. When Lucerys takes over Runestone, I believe he will be long married and likely have several children. Runestone can pass to a younger child.” I blushed with that thought.

“There would already be a younger child if you didn’t neglect your wife,” Gunthor said, before his face went bright red in embarrassment. Before Father could respond, I broke out in laughter. Both Gunthor and Father looked at me oddly as I could my breath.

“Forgive me,” I said, “but even if I had a brother or sister, that wouldn’t change what is happening. Simply the details.” Father, after a moment – and a pleading look from me – nodded in agreement, as his hand moved away from Dark Sister’s hilt.

“The Lords would find something else to mutter about,” he finally said. “Now, since you clearly brought their mutterings to King’s Landing, you must have a solution to it that doesn’t entail my son giving up his birthrights, from his mother or myself?” Gunthor hesitated. My face fell as I realized he didn’t. Any solution of his would mean giving up any inheritance of my own from one side of my family or the other.

“And if I renounced my claim to Runestone, Aunt Ysilla would become Lady of Runestone after mother, and you being her husband, you’d claim Runestone for yourself,” I said, my mouth twisting into a snear. “I wonder— is it the Lords of Westeros whispering, or just your allies who want you to claim Runestone for yourself?” Father put his hand on Dark Sister again. Gunthor let out a sad sigh.

“I will not deny that some that were more friendly with my _dear departed father_ , ” he almost spat, “were more forceful about it, yet I heard it discussed among the Stormlords and some of the Narrow Sea houses. Lord Boremund has but one child, and succession would pass to his sister in the event that his line fails; if things had gone the other way at the Great Council, it would have led to an even bigger mess there.” Father stood up then.

“Yet there will be no dispute. Runestone will continue to serve the Eyrie, even when it’s Lord sits upon the Iron Throne. There is nothing further to discuss. Lucerys, come,” he said. I nodded and stood up. Gunthor said nothing as we left the tent. Father grabbed my arm as soon as we were out of sight and pulled me along, leaving me stumbling.

“You need a sworn shield, I cannot watch you as I did before I was Commander of the City Watch,” he muttered. “And Gunthor will need to be closely watched. No matter my feelings on your mother, she is Lady of Runestone, and you her heir.” I nodded rapidly. After the main portion of the tourney was over, I finally returned to the quiet of the Godswood, before walking behind the great oak and crouching down, lightly touching the blood-red leaves of the sapling there and making a quiet prayer of good fortune for the future.

A small event in the Sept of the Red Keep that evening saw Harwin Strong finally knighted. Yet, at the conclusion, Viserys looked dead at me and made a simple announcement.

“As my young nephew does not have a personal guard to watch over him, and he will likely not always be around the Kingsguard, I see none better than our young new Knight to watch over him. Ser Harwin Strong, would you accept this responsibility?” I looked quickly to Lord Lyonel, who gave me a stern look and a nod. Guess that’s the favor… I thought.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ser Harwin called. “I will protect young Prince Lucerys with my life, and serve him to the best of my ability!” _Well, shit, there goes the timeline._


	14. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally almost done with this story arc; it's been killing me, tbh, but I'm happy it's providing a proper launching point for my ideas.

“You weren’t able to get the glass?” I asked, as I looked over the small tub. _It might work, but it won’t be as effective. Damn Myrish and their high prices! Maybe I should put some effort into a Westerosi Glass-making Industry._ Elwyn shook his head sadly.

“I tried, my prince, I truly did. But the Myrish have raised their prices ever higher with Lys and Tyrosh backing them, I couldn’t get the funds released. I had it crafted as best I could,” he said. “I pray we won’t need it until I can get the glass for it.” I shook my head, my head swimming with panic, but I tried to hold it together.

“You did your best, that’s all I can truly request of you,” I said. “We will just have to pray it works. The warm water will do most of the work for us. The glass just makes it easier. A box could also work, if we cut holes in the side, I guess.” Elwyn nodded.

“Just as well, Your Grace. I’ll make preparations at once!” he said. I gave him a smile, then ran out of the small office that Elwyn operated from, and began to walk up the hall. Heavy footsteps suddenly sounded behind me, and thus I spun around and faced back.

“Harwin, I’ve told you to call out to me when you join me,” I said, as my bodyguard looked away in embarrassment. I sighed sadly. I’d thought I’d hate having Harwin Strong around me constantly, but he wasn’t terrible company most of the time. He talked a lot, though could be discreet when needed. And he didn’t ask too many questions, so it made him, ironically, fairly ideal. Now, if I could convince him to not back away from Vermithor whenever I had him brought out, he’d be nearly perfect.

We made our way to the entrance of the Godswood and carefully walked through until we arrived at the Heart Tree. I waved for Harwin to go on ahead, and he nodded, moving ahead and out of hearing range. I had few prayers today, though I did clear some weeds around the weirwood sapling. I’d already made the prayers I could in the days previous— all I could ask now was for something that would work, whether just the baby being born on time or the makeshift incubator working before it was truly fully ready. I rejoined Harwin a few minutes later, as he leaned against a tree waiting.

We returned to the Rookery soon after, climbing the stairs to Grand Maester Runicter’s apartments and office. As I approached the doors, I heard loud arguing from the other side of it.

“We don’t need your superstitious nonsense here, let me do my work!” I heard Runciter yell. A calm accented voice responded from the other side.

“I understand you are Chief Healer to the King; but I must do my job— the lady Queen’s humors are imbalanced, and her child will suffer if that is not rectified, and soon. While your advisor plays with magic, I do my job, you should—” I waved for Harwin to open the door and I slipped in with a smile, Harwin stepping in and closing the door behind us.

“Afternoon, Grand Maester!” I called with a smile. Hesitantly, Runciter smiled back at me. I looked to the tanned man standing across from him and raised an eyebrow. “And who’s your guest? I do hope you don’t plan to replace Maester Elwyn, I’m finally done with him!”

“No you’re not,” Runciter muttered, before chuckling. “And I am happy that you will be releasing him. Since he seems to have the paper for this,” he then stood up and pulled out a box, revealing one of the first prototypes of Obstetrical forceps. I made a smile as I looked at them. Maybe… maybe things can actually go well this time. I pointed at the rounded front section for the Grand Maester.

“Those wrap around a babe’s head. You don’t pull, you guide,” I said. The Grand Maester looked at me strangely. I sighed and grabbed his hand. “Guide,” I repeated, lightly moving his hand in one direction before moving it slowly towards me, “don’t pull,” I finished, yanking his hand. Runciter finally nodded in understanding. I giggled, letting my emotions loosen finally, as footsteps came past me and the accented man picked up one of the forceps.

“And what, may I ask, is this?” he asked. He looked right past me and at Runciter. “It looks like a device for strangling. What business does a healer have with torture and executions?” He pushed past me, my side hitting Runciter’s desk as I yelped, a bit louder than needed be, as I landed on my rear. Runciter gasped and backed up. I looked up at the “healer,” my most pathetic look on my face, while also waving a hand to make sure Harwin didn't go full Robert Baratheon on this man's ribcage.

“Fool!” Runciter hissed. “Do you know who the boy is?! That’s Prince Daemon’s son, our King’s own nephew!” The man rolled his eyes.

“Then he needs to learn to get out of the way when the learned are speaking. Yet you failed to answer my question— this device has no place in medicine! It is an instrument of execution! Why do you have such a thing? Are you Westerosi even more—” Harwin finally piped up, his mace resting on his shoulder.

“If you say ‘barbaric,’ I am going to swing this mace,” Harwin said. “You hurt the Prince.” I pushed myself up, only for pain to shoot up as I fell back onto Harwin, who quickly picked me up and rested me against his shoulder. Not the most dignified look, but at least it didn’t hurt as bad.

“I was to say ‘backwards,’ as you see no problem—” he began, but I interrupted.

“They are to help a babe coming out of their mother!” I yelled angrily. “Less mothers die, less babes die, less children lose their mothers!”

“...Fewer…” Runciter muttered. I glared at him.

“Shut up,” I said before I could stop myself. I blinked and went bright red. “Eh, Grand Maester, I—” Runciter chuckled. I sighed, and glared back at the tanned Essosi.

“They are not tools of strangulation any more than a cane is a tool of murder,” I continued. “Did my uncle hire you? You’ll be out on the streets by—” the door forced open as a messenger rushed in. “Grand Maester, Freeman Taenis, her grace’s waters have broken, you are requested at once!” My heart dropped. _No, no, it’s too early!_ I looked at Harwin, who immediately ran out the door and down the stairs, to where Alesander and Elwyn were still discussing things. They looked up immediately as Harwin ran in, having moved me to a piggy-back style.

“Bring everything to the rooms, Aunt Aemma’s waters have broken!” I called loudly. Both immediately leapt to their feet and began work to move everything to where it needed to be. Harwin immediately turned around and began running, up stairs, and across the lower bailey, bringing me back to Maegor’s Holdfast. Harwin brought us to the Royal Apartments, where he set me down next to Rhaenyra, who was fidgeting uncontrollably. Her face perked up a bit as she saw me.

“Luke!” she called, moving up to me and hugging me tightly. I wrapped my arms back around her. My breath caught as I felt her shaking.

“Rhae, Rhae what is… are you well?” I whispered. She pressed across the cushion until she was snuggled against me. My face heated up for a moment, but subsided a moment later.

“Mama… I don’t want to lose Mama…” she sobbed, as I felt tears hitting my shoulder. “So many… they say she’ll die… I don’t want to lose her like I did Grandfather!” I hugged her tighter, dropping a light kiss to her brow.

“We won’t,” I whispered back. “She’ll be well soon, and your new brother or sister will be here soon, too.” Rhaenyra nodded into my side, before looking up at me. I smiled back at her as best I could, before she nodded, and curled back up against me. I closed my eyes in thought. It was still too early. I wasn’t sure if the makeshift incubator would work or not, or if the forceps would be of any use. It wasn’t even about preventing civil war at this point… I just didn’t want to lose Aemma.

Even with everything I’d done, the forceps and the incubator and the basic health advice, things were still just up to chance. There was still a chance Rhaenyra would lose her mother, and everything I’d done would be for nothing. I clutched Rhaenyra tight, hoping that I was wrong, that everything would be fine, that I was panicking for no reason. The door opened then, and Viserys walked in, worry all over his face.

“How is she, is everything progressing well?” he asked. _Great, because what we need now was Viserys and **his** worrying over everything._ And then Aemma screamed from the other room.


	15. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter I have to do this arc, hallelujah!
> 
> One of these days, I'm going to back over these and re-edit all of them. But today is not that day— I live on the edge!

A field of darkness spread out all around me. Every direction, a field of shadow, with only myself visible. _Oh brilliant, this again._ From the sky descended a white falcon, made of pure starlight, crashing down to Earth. I tried to run to it, but found myself unable to move. The falcon breathed heavily, before melting away to the starlight it came from, leaving behind a small blue and black dragon.

After a few moments, a bronze dragon appeared next to it, before sheltering the smaller dragon with it’s wings. My heart rested for only a moment. The bronze dragon began to smoke, then its wings burst into flame. The flame spread all over, overtaking its legs, then body, then head, as the dragon screeched in agony. I tried to run again, but I was still frozen in place. Despite the pain it must have been in, the bronze dragon refused to move, burning brighter and longer, before turning to ash, and blowing away in the wind, as if Thanos had snapped it out of existence.

The blue and black dragon then poked its head up through the ashes, and after a quick look around took off with a flap of its wings. The dream then rewound for a moment, to when the bronze dragon had landed. Instead of sheltering the blue one, it turned and flew away, and the smaller one turned to dust.

A voice rang out in my ears, imperceptible, as the scenery faded, and I awoke. I looked around, I was still buried in the cushion, holding Rhae tightly, as she was holding me. I smiled at her, before carefully moving and standing up. I walked over to one of the small windows and stared out at the dark city. I tried not to think about the dream.

Footsteps came up behind me as I stared out over the city. I took a breath and turned. Father stood, looking down at me, clearly not coming from far away. He walked up next to me and pulled me into his side.

“Dreams again, Lucerys?” he asked. I nodded. He always knew when I’d had dragon dreams, was it something in my face or something?

“Yeah, it was…” I muttered. I looked down, closing my eyes tightly and breathing slowly. Plans had to be made now— if Baelon survived tonight, and the dream at the very least gave me hope that he would, then he would be the heir. That is, assuming Aemma didn’t pop out a girl… then the problems from canon would remain. Ugh.

Even still, plans needed to be made. No matter what happened, I was likely to still be in the inner circle of the heir to the throne. Whether that be Baelon, Rhaenyra, or… ugh… Father. I refused to let House Targaryen get into the situations that led to the Baratheons taking over. That meant keeping the dragons, or doing some proper centralization… ugh, probably both. I did not want to be the one who tried to centralize a continent.

Still, had to weaken the Lords, and also make sure measures were in place that if a King went full Aerion or Aerys, a proper regency could be forced… then I would also have to have countermeasures to avoid that being used as an easy mechanism for coups or for a Westerosi Fujiwara… I was really scared of a Westerosi Fujiwara, no clue why.

If… if things went as I remembered them going, with Baelon and Aemma dead, then I didn’t know what could happen. It all depended on Father, I supposed. If he could avoid pissing off Viserys, then he’d remain heir until Viserys remarried… but then his ego wouldn’t let him back down. _Ugh._ But if he did piss off Viserys, then it would be off to the races straight towards the Dance. Unless there was a healthy boy born, then it would be Civil War.

If I wanted any control over things, or even the ability to make life better, I’d have to make sure I was a constant fixture in the kid’s life. Probably be the doting big brother, while making sure to not trample on Rhae’s big sister privileges. Hopefully not _Targaryen_ ones, but… _ugh, why did **that** thought pop into my head?_

Even if Baelon lived, that still left the Velaryons and their Blues. They’d supported Rhaenyra in canon, but that was only because of her marriage to Laenor; I wasn’t naïve enough to believe otherwise. Baelon would be too young for a marriage to Laena, and any marriage to a child of Laena would be many years off. Time enough for even my plans to get Corlys to like me would fizzle and for him to gather an army to take what he viewed as his – or his wife’s – by right.

So, Civil War was coming one way or another. Great. And given our status as the riders of Vermithor and Silverwing, Rhaenyra and me were the ones that would probably be sent against Vhagar if that happened. My father was the most experienced Dragon Rider in the world, and he only managed to make his fight with Vhagar a draw. _Maybe getting some full combat training on dragonback wouldn’t be a bad idea… better to start early._

I was suddenly shaken from my thoughts. I blinked and looked up as Father stared down at me. I looked away from him and back out the window. _Can I tell him? I don’t… I have to. I can’t hide it._

“She’s going to die,” I said quietly, letting a few tears drip before wiping them quickly. “I couldn’t stop it, no matter what I tried. She’ll still die.” Father wrapped his arm around me. It wasn’t exactly comforting, but I knew he was at least trying. “My new cousin might live, but the dream didn’t… I’m not sure what needs to be…” Then it clicked in my head. _Oh._ It made sense now. The voice replayed clearly in my memory.

Before I could think about it more, the screams from the other room suddenly resumed. I hugged close to Father even after the screams subsided a bit. I felt his hand brush my head, which was strangely comforting.

“Have strength now, Lucerys. For yourself, for young Rhaenyra, and for your new cousin,” he said. “You are a dragon— grief is passing, but strength is needed to pass it and remain whole.” That… was not something I expected to hear from him. I looked up at him, confused. “‘Tis what Father said to me… after Mother passed. He was right.” I nodded, and looked back over the room. Harwin was off in the corner, next to Criston Cole, who has still not fallen down the stairs, to my infinite dismay. Rhae was asleep on the cushion, her hair falling all over around her as she curled into it. I smiled at the sight.

The screaming soon returned in earnest as Rhaenyra slowly stirred awake. I twisted out of Father’s arms and walked over to her quietly, letting her stir, until the screaming finally registered. She pushed herself up.

“Not over yet, is it?” she asked. I shook my head. I wasn’t great at tracking time at night, but it had been roughly two in the afternoon when the birth had started. Not long after, Viserys arrived, with Ser Harrold Westerling loyally at his side. He was clearly exhausted, as the sun had barely peeked over the horizon, but immediately ran to his daughter and embraced her.

Time seemed to move in a bubble, then. The sun went up, and the cycle of screaming returned in earnest. Viserys flinched every time another scream came. There was some noise in the other room for a few moments, but then the screaming returned, louder, and more pain-filled. Viserys had to hold Rhaenyra tight to prevent her from running to the door.

After the loud screams continued for what felt like forever, it reached a peak, then quieted. I ran over to Rhaenyra and held her hand tightly, more for my own sake than for hers. I stared at the door, nothing happening for what I thought was several minutes. Then, a maid peaked her head out, her eyes showing just how tired she was.

“She’s ready… Your Grace, you and the children first,” she said quietly. Viserys directed the two of us into the room.

First impression— it smelled terrible. Not exactly unexpected, but it still wasn’t pleasant. It was a relatively small room, all things considered. Grand Maester Runciter and Maester Elwyn were next to the bed, alongside that Essosi prick. I approached slowly, as Elwyn rushed over and poured the hot water over my hands, and Rhaenyra’s as well after a moment.

“Thank you,” Elwyn whispered. “The forceps ended the birth sooner. The babe may have a chance now,” he finished. I nodded, approaching Aemma slowly. She was incredibly pale, and sweat poured down her face, but she smiled at the small bundle in her arms.

In the bundle was a small, pale baby, wheezing cries out. Aemma carely reached up and rubbed the infant’s face. I could see the tiniest hints of blond hair on his head, and pale purple eyes. I looked about for the incubator, but couldn’t see it anywhere. Must have been left downstairs… he’s too small, we have to leave him in it until he’s a bit bigger. I whispered for Elwyn to move to Aemma’s other side near the baby. Aemma’s head moved over to me and Rhae.

“Mama…” Rhae said, rushing over and hugging Aemma’s arm. She smiled back at her daughter.

“Your brother is beautiful,” she said, her voice quiet and shaking. “Baelon, is his name. After your grandfather… the Spring Prince who should have been King. He’ll need you… need you both.” Rhaenyra started sobbing.

“Mama… mama please, don’t leave!” she forced out. Viserys knelt on her other side, fighting back tears. She shook her head, brushing the tears out of Rhae’s and I’s faces.

“Be strong, you two. Baelon needs you both. Stand by him, teach him, watch over him, and guide him, as those who would be his siblings.” She made a weak smile. “You would have made a fine King and Queen, both of you. I would have been happy to call Luke my son, or goodson. Now you’ll both protect the next King,” she was losing track of what she was saying, I could tell. “Live for him, and be strong in my loss…” she said, with a smile, before turning to Viserys. I hugged Rhaenyra tight as we cried.

When I had no more tears to cry, I helped Rhaenyra down to cry at her mother’s side. I smiled and walked over to Maester Elwyn, poking little Baelon’s nose, noticing a small trail of blood that flowed down to his mouth from where I poked. I muttered a curse and wiped it with his cloth. He let out a little giggle, then a reedy cough, turning to sobs. I held up my arms, and Maester Elwyn carefully handed him to me.

“Hi, Baelon,” I whispered. A cough was my answer. I held him closer to my thin smallclothes, as he snuggled into me. I looked out into the antechamber outside. Father had left, it seemed, but Harwin stood with a smile and wave. I waved back as best as I could without putting down the baby.

I turned to Elwyn, who nodded and walked over to… wait, where was the Grand Maester? Elwyn began arguing with the Essosi prick, who I didn’t remember the name of. After a few moments, I walked over as their argument got louder and Baelon squirmed in my arms.

“Oi!” I called. Both of them, as well as Viserys for a moment, turned to me, confused. “Shut up, you’re making Baelon upset,” I said. “Where’s the Grand Maester? We can’t keep Baelon here for too long,” I finished. “And can someone put out the fire? It’s too hot in here,” I added, feeling far too warm for my liking. Prick sighed.

“Look, Your Grace, since the Chief Healer isn’t here, I’m in charge; the child needs rest and likely some cupping to balance his humors. I know you think you know everything, I was once the same. You could be a great healer one day with that head, but you are still only a child. Don’t endanger your cousin’s life, just bring him over here. Let the men with experience do the hard work,” he said, clearly trying to be nice. I frowned and turned around.

“Elwyn, where is the Grand Maester?” I asked, still fidgeting in the heat. Maybe if he was nearby, I could—

"Right here," Runciter said, stepping back into the room. "Freeman Taenis, my stepping out for but a brief moment does not give you the authority to usurp my position. And if you continue to spout your quackery, you may soon find yourself gone!" he then looked at me with a strained smile. "Elwyn's tub is downstairs, first door on the right. I'll go with you in a moment." I nodded, clutching Baelon tighter. I turned to the door and stepped toward it, rocking my cousin in my arms.

“Your Grace, I wouldn’t,” a voice said, then pain shot through my head. I held on to Baelon to make sure I didn’t drop him, and fell to a knee, reeling with pain. _Hit me… someone had to have hit me!_

“Harwin!” I screamed. I looked up, black spots dancing across my blurry vision, the heat now nearly unbearable. My sworn shield stepped in quickly, mace drawn. I looked around swiftly, and then I realized— no one had hit me. It wasn't physical. In an instant, I remembered the vision, the flaming bronze dragon… and the word that echoed through my mind.

_**Decide.** _

And so I did. I forced myself to my feet and ran past Harwin, with calls yelling after me. “Hold that door!” I called, not looking back at my sworn shield. Another blast of pain nearly tripped me, but I held onto the rail with everything I had, making my way to the chamber that Elwyn had put aside for storage. I burst through the door, probably looking like hell, making the two maids inside jump.

Carefully, I placed Baelon down on the little bed in the double-walled tub and slid the box over it, as another blast of pain, far worse than the previous ones, sent me to the ground, as the world around me went dark for a moment. I called for the hot water that had been prepared from the maids. They swiftly brought it over, and I poured it into the incubator, again and again, until it was filled. I looked back and saw the securely locked door shake, but I couldn’t hear. Actually, I couldn’t hear anything. Was that bad? I think that was bad. I stumbled over to the door, and pulled on the lock.

It was Grand Maester Runciter and Harwin, both breathing heavily. I sighed. Runciter immediately ran over, feeling Baelon's head as the baby sobbed. Harwin seemed to be trying to say something to me, but I couldn't hear. I looked up at him.

"Harwin, I can't hear you. I'm... I'm sorry," I said. My sworn shield stopped, and crouched down in front of me. "Make..." a burst of pain made me yell out. "Make sure... Rhaenyra is happy, and protect Baelon. I charge you with this, unless and until I order otherwise." Harwin looked conflicted, but I never saw his response, as another burst of pain fired through me, and I screamed, a scream I felt up and down my entire body. My vision went black as I felt myself crash to the stone, and I knew no more.


	16. Interlude II: The Realm's Delight

The sun shined brightly through her windows, but it had little effect on Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. She rested, curled up, staring at her bed. A servant walked in, bringing her some food. Rhaenyra paid it no mind. Her mother was gone. Luke was about to join her, and her father was locked in his rooms, refusing to come out. And nothing was bright. All was dark.

_Live for him, and be strong in my loss_ , her mother had said. _I can’t, Mama! I need you!_ The crying returned, but the tears dried up the previous day. The room had gotten darker, before she ate the food that was brought. Cold Soup. Same as it was the previous day. No taste.

No taste… just like there would be no more reading, no more knitting, no more hugs, no more kisses, no more… no more Mama. But… Baelon would be around soon. He’d play with her, and she could teach him all the games she’d learned. But… without Luke… without Luke there would be no fun to the games. After several more moments, Rhaenyra heard a knock at her door. Forcing herself up, Rhaenyra walked over to it.

“Y-Yes?” she asked. After several moments, her loyal shield spoke to her.

“The Lord Hand’s daughter wishes to see you, says she can help,” he said. _Help? Who can help me… unless she can bring mother back, I can’t…_

“Let her in,” Rhaenyra finally forced out, walking over to her bed and throwing herself back onto the bed. The door opened, and light footsteps came in. Rhaenyra looked, and saw the young woman run over and sit next to her.

“Whaddya want, Ali?” she asked. The brunette sat next to her.

“No light, like the sun never comes up,” she said, curling up next to Rhaenyra. “Am I close?” Rhaenyra looked at her. _How… how can she know?_

“Yes… it is…” the princess said. “How, how can you…” The Hand’s daughter laughed a moment.

“My mother…” she began, the laughter stopping, “she died, when I was your age.” Rhaenyra scooted closer, as Ali’s face drooped. “She never got better after Gwayne was born. When she died, it felt like all was dark. Like there was nothing good left. The food was tasteless, the games weren’t fun.” Rhaenyra nodded. That was… that was what she felt. “I pretended I felt better, at first. I smiled, laughed, and pretended nothing was hurting, while I still cried at night. I kept it up… until the pain started to fade. It was gradual, but it no longer hurt as much, and I could laugh and forget about it again,” she continued. “I… I still miss Mother, but I know she’d want me to be happy. And here in King’s Landing, I will be. I’ll find a husband who loves me, and…” she stopped, looking down. “And, if the Seven smile upon me, I’ll have happy children, who will grow up strong.”

Before the darkness could return, she reached over and hugged Rhaenyra. The Princess squirmed a bit, but consented to the hug after a few moments. “Think on my words, Princess. Father wants to meet with me now. Pray for me that it isn’t plotting.” The young woman stood up then, releasing Rhaenyra. “By your leave.” She nodded for her to leave, and Alicent did so, walking out the door with a nod to Ser Criston.

Rhaenyra sat on her bed, staring at the wall, thinking of the words given to her. _Could I… could I really lie like that? Say everything is bright again when all I see is darkness?_ The wall gave her no answer. Silently accepting that she had no choice, Rhaenyra called for Criston to summon her maids.

Minutes later, a bath had been drawn for her, and she was swiftly cleaned, dressed, and ready to head out. Ser Criston followed behind. I was told to be strong for Baelon… I have to see him. I have to see the boy I’ll be strong for. Rhaenyra walked through the winding hallways until she reached the room that Baelon was being kept in. With a long drawn out breath, she entered the room. It was a well-kept room, with a knight of the Kingsguard standing to guard the small tub where her brother slept.

“I want to see him,” Rhaenyra said, in her most confident tone. One of the Maesters, Elwyn she thought his name was, walked over to her with a smile, and gently took her hands to wash in the basin.

“Your Grace,” he said. “Prince Baelon is right here.” He crouched down and bade Rhaenyra come closer, before pointing to the small sleeping figure on a bed. He’s so tiny! Rhaenyra thought, leaning closer, hesitantly reaching a hand into the warm box and combing the wisps of blond hair with her fingers. The child let out a small snore as he slept.

“Hi, Baelon,” Rhaenyra whispered, in High Valyrian like Luke had said to. “I’m your big sister, Rhaenyra. Once you can come out, I’ll hold you and talk to you, just like mama did. You’ll grow up with us, me and our cousin Luke, and we’ll take care of you, play games, make you happy. You’ll be the happiest Prince ever, and we’ll treasure you, as our brother… and our future King.” _I have to believe Luke will get better… he has to, he has to!_ When Rhaenyra looked back at the box, the baby had woken up. Elwyn laughed and looked up.

“Call the Wet Nurse, the Prince needs to be fed,” he said. One of the servants bowed swiftly and ran out. Rhaenyra watched the servant leave, then looked longingly at Baelon.

“Might I hold him for a moment?” she asked. Elwyn smiled and nodded.

“You may hand him to the Wet Nurse, should you wish, Your Grace,” he said. Several long moments later, the young woman arrived, and Elwyn helped pull Baelon from his box. Rhaenyra cradled him for a few moments, his face squished up. Rhaenyra dropped a kiss to his brow and handed him to the Wet Nurse, who took him with a smile of her own.

“His suckles are strong,” she whispered to Elwyn. “What you do here, keep doin’ it.” Elwyn gave a smile and nod in return. When Baelon was fully done, Elwyn placed him back on the small bed as he drifted off again. After a few more minutes of watching the baby, Rhaenyra gave a smile to Maester Elwyn and told him to take care of her brother.

She departed with Criston Cole a few moments later. They walked out of Maegor’s Holdfast and around the outer wall surrounding the dry moat, to the back entrance of the godswood. Luke always said it was the faster route. Passing through, Rhaenyra stopped to brush some dirt off and pull some vines by the weirwood sapling that Luke loved so much.

Ser Criston said nothing as he followed Rhaenyra out of the Godswood and to the Sept. Rhaenyra did the ceremonial entrance, dipping her fingers into the holy water and making the Seven-Pointed Star on her chest, before finally stepping forward into the Sept proper. The Septon wasn’t there, probably off drinking in the city. Rhaenyra started at the statue of the Mother, kneeling before it and bowing her head, as Criston handed her a candle to light the one at the Mother’s feet.

_Oh Mother Above, let Baelon keep getting stronger, and help Lucerys recover faster._

She moved to the Maiden next. The prayer began after she lit the candle.

_Innocent Maid, guide me as a new sister, to be kind to my brother and give him all the love he needs and can’t get from our mother now._

The Father’s candles were all but gone, but Criston managed to find a fresh one for her to light.

_Father Above, be just in your judgement of my family, and allow my mother to see her brothers and father again in your halls._

Rhaenyra looked at the other statues in the hall. She walked over to the Smith, and gave a short prayer of thanks for the creations that helped Baelon, walked past the Warrior with a small wish for Baelon and Luke to be protected, and gave a secondary plea to the Crone for guidance. That left only the Stranger. Rhaenyra took a candle and placed it in a metal holder at the base of the Stranger’s statue.

_Stranger, please guide my mother to the Father’s halls, see her swift passage, and let her see my eldest brother, my uncles, and my grandfather again._

As her prayers concluded, Rhaenyra stood up again, gave each of the statues a small bow, before turning and walking out of the church, once again making a Heptagram over her chest with the Holy Water. Seeing nothing else she could do, she began her trip back to Maegor’s Holdfast, this time taking the longer route. The sun was lower in the sky as they crossed the drawbridge again. As they entered, Rhaenyra made the choice to visit Baelon one more time, as he might well have woken up. _Maybe Maester Elwyn will let me hold him longer!_

As she approached the corridor, Rhaenyra heard yelling from up the hall. She gasped and took off running, grabbing the hem of her dress to avoid tripping. When she arrived in the corridor, there was a crowd outside of the room where Baelon rested. At the head of the crowd, Healer Taenis stood, arms crossed, as Maester Elwyn read from parchment in his hands. Maester Elwyn looked up, furious.

“What foul magics have you cursed upon our King, to have him order such dark things?” he demanded. Taenis shook his head.

“You ‘Maesters’ need to learn to accept when your knowledge has failed,” he said. Without warning, the two White Cloaks rushed forward, pulling the Maester out of the way. Rhaenyra screamed and pointed at the door.

“Ser Criston, help the Maester!” she yelled. Rhaenyra turned to her sworn knight… but he stood still, staring blankly, unmoving. “Ser Criston!” she called again. But her white knight still stood there. Rhaenyra shook her head and, hearing the wails of her little brother, tried to rush to the door, and only then did Ser Criston move, grabbing Rhaenyra and holding her tight.

“Let me go, let me go!” she demanded. “I command you to let me go!” She tried to push away as the door to Baelon’s room shut, screaming again. “Let me go! They’re killing him! Let me go!” Rhaenyra’s pleas fell on deaf ears, as her voice grew hoarse and fell, as the light seemed to fade from the world.

_What did I do wrong?_ The Princess wondered, as the world grew grey again. _Did I displease the gods? Did I bring down a curse that made them kill Baelon?_ Her screams echoed around her, even after they’d stopped. The hallway became silent then, as the truth was forced upon the young Princess: her brother was dead, and nothing could be done to save him. Anyone who could was either killing him, being prevented from doing so, or craven knights unable to stand up and save the Prince of Dragonstone. _It’s not my fault_ , Rhaenyra realized. _It’s theirs. All of them._ The world around her was almost clear in the grey. _Luke nearly gave his life to save him, Elwyn did his best despite the danger, Ser Harwin obeyed his charge even at risk of treason._ Rhaenyra let the tears fall, even as she stopped struggling. _All of them, all of them will pay for this!_

She couldn’t make them pay alone. No one could do anything alone. Maegor the Cruel had proved that. _Allies, friends, and a smile are the keys to ruling,_ she’d been told. There was only one person who could help her, if the gods hadn’t taken him yet.

“Release me, Cole. I don’t wish to watch this any longer,” she said, no tone to her voice at all. Slowly, the arms came off of her. Rhaenyra took one last look at the door, and turned around, walking away. Criston Cole did not follow. She knew where the room was, and no one dared intercept her. Only one man stood outside the door.

“Princess,” Ser Harwin Strong said, in a tired voice. “Are… are you here to see him?” She nodded.

“Baelon’s dead,” she said, surprising even herself. “I can’t lose him, too.” Harwin looked down at her, then nodded, opening the door. Rhaenyra stepped in, as the door was closed behind her gently. It was a normal bedroom, but a bucket of cold water rested next to the bed, and Luke rested on it. He looked almost peaceful, were it not for the sweat pouring down his face, and the weak breathing. She walked over to him, pulling a stood to sit at his bedside.

“I failed,” she said. “He’s dead, and I couldn’t stop it. You nearly died, and I couldn’t save him!” She leaned over him and sobbed. “Please, I lost mama, I lost Baelon, I can’t lose you, too!” She took a breath. “The ones that killed him, I can’t avenge him without you, you’re the smart one, you have ideas, you have friends, you have Uncle! Please, please don’t die, I need you. I need you,” she closed her eyes, unable to look at his shaking face anymore, “I love you.” Her tears dripped down onto his face.

With a hiss, her tears suddenly began to steam away, as did the water in the cloth. And a coughing sound came from the bed. Rhaenyra looked down. The boy was still asleep, but… but he didn’t seem so… so dead.

“Ser Harwin!” Rhaenyra called. “Get the Grand Maester!” The door cracked and Harwin looked in, as she dipped another cloth into the water that chilled her hands to the bone, and placed it on his face. It also steamed, but not as loudly. Harwin looked at Rhaenyra, and she nodded to him. He closed the door and loud footsteps clanged up the hallway outside.

Looking at the bucket, Rhaenyra dipped two fingers into it for a moment. _It’s no Holy Water, but it can work, I guess._ She made a heptagram over her chest, and put her hands together.

“Thank you,” she said out loud. “For saving Luke.” And, for the first time since Queen Aemma’s passing, Rhaenyra truly felt like the Seven had heard her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the deuteragonist has spread her wings. See you all next arc!


End file.
